Where We Fear To Tread
by Darkened Shadows
Summary: This is my story of my character, a Dalish hunter, through Dragon Age: Inquisition. Following the explosion of the Conclave and the subsequent death of her best friend, Miriana Lavellan struggles to come to terms with her new and continuously changing situation. The backstory is a bit more complex but includes an Inquisitor/Cullen romance and Inquisitor/Solas friendship.
1. Andraste's Choice

_My name is Miriana of Clan Lavellan. I am a hunter of the wandering Dalish clan. I am fifty-five years of age, recently turned. My best friend is…_

At this, Miriana's thoughts trailed off, biting her tongue in sadness. She sat up in her bed, feeling immensely fatigued but forcing herself to relive her most recent memories anyway. More than a week ago, she remembered standing before the Keeper of Clan Lavellan, being instructed on the entrance of herself and the First to the Keeper into the Conclave created by the Divine Justinia V.

Normally, such discussions were not for her ears. She was only a hunter, after all. Despite the fact that she was relatively skilled in both agility and wisdom, she was still too young to be anyone of consequence even among her own people. Her best friend, Mahanon of the Lavellan, however, had used his skill in magic to propel himself upward among their ranks until he found himself to be the right hand of the Keeper herself.

The Keeper had been greatly disturbed by what the humans termed the Mage Rebellion. Despite the immensely isolated nature of the Dalish clans, word of the war had come to them and had even caused a small level of distrust between the mages and the hunters of Clan Lavellan. If there was a way to combat this dissension, the Keeper wanted to be aware of it, even if it was a human that resolved the situation.

So, in this moment, as with all other moments prior, Mahanon had been the important one. Miriana had accompanied him as a bodyguard and as the only hunter in which Mahanon would give his unwavering trust. She had watched their backs on the journey to the Temple of Sacred Ashes just outside of Haven, as Mahanon could barely be bothered to watch his front if it had nothing to do with his own personal ambition, and made sure that they had enough to eat. As it turned out, she was also relatively skilled at the slaughter of nugs and fennecs.

However, about three-quarters of the way through the journey from the Free Marches to Haven, Miriana's memory became hazy and vague. She could remember arriving at the Temple but not how Mahanon had made sure that they both were granted entrance to the negotiations inside. She could remember walking through a stone building with corridors enough to make her dizzy but not the actual moment of carnage that had ensued.

Carnage that had obliterated her best friend, his body mangled and ruined.

After stabilizing the Breach, which she had done under some duress, Miriana had found his body. She had been subsisting on the thought that since his body had yet to be found, there was a possibility that he had survived. Perhaps, just as she had. If he was alive, there was no need to grieve for the one person that had made her feel as if she wasn't alone in all of Thedas.

However, just after stabilizing the Breach, just before the effort of such a feat pulled her down into sweet nothingness, she had seen him. The body had been lodged in a crevice as if a blast had forced it there and the presence of the Breach had asserted that nothing and no one could recover the bodies in this area. Even though Mahanon's slender limbs had been mangled beyond recognition and blood marred his beautiful but usually stern face, she could recognize in the mutilation the familiar essence of her friend.

As luck would have it, she did not have time to cry out, revealing her dismay to those around her. The blackness took her and she welcomed it, sorely wanting to escape the sight of the corpse in front of her before she could fully face the reality of what had happened.

Now, she had to face it. Mahanon was dead, had been dead for the better part of the last week, had been dead through that entire horrible day with Seeker Pentaghast when the only thing getting her through it was the idea of retelling it to her friend later. Because her father had been the Storyteller of their clan, Miriana often found comfort in repeating her ordeals as if it was a grand tale.

She shivered suddenly. She felt horribly alone. A flickering green light caught her attention and she half-glared at her own hand. "Just me and you now, huh?" she murmured derisively.

Miriana had a strange love-hate relationship with the Mark. While stabilizing the Breach had eliminated most of the debilitating pain that came with proximity to the Fade rifts, she could no longer look at her hand without feeling as if everyone around her blamed her for the death of the Divine Justinia.

Oh, in all reality, word would soon spread about what had been witnessed at the breach. Divine Justinia had called for her help, a call to which she seemed to have readily replied, implying that someone else was to blame for the Divine's untimely death. But the harsher aspect of that reality was that there was no one else to blame. It would be much easier to allocate all censure to the very real Dalish elf with the mark that controlled Fade rifts than to that of some unknown, unseen evil.

Closing her eyes against her new reality, where she was heartbreakingly alone and the world seemed to be crashing down around her head, Miriana finally stood and walked to the door. It was time to face the day and to face whatever the Seeker had planned for her.

After the meeting with what she was sure Varric would later dub the "War Council", Miriana felt as if someone had dragged her mind through the worst kind of filth imaginable. She had been called to confer with Cassandra as well as three others: Josephine Montilyet, Cullen Rutherford, and Leliana, an ambassador, a military commander, and a spymaster, respectively.

The meeting itself had a two-pronged purpose. The first was to inform Miriana that they had reinstated the Inquisition of old. Not a single one of them would be very clear on what exactly such a reinstatement would mean but it seems to be sanctioned through an old order, another aspect upon which they refused to clarify. The purpose of this Inquisition was to root out the cause of the Divine Justinia's death and the creation of the Breach that still hung ominously over their heads.

Miriana had a feeling that this "Inquisition" would end up becoming far more consuming than they first assumed.

The second purpose of the meeting was to inform the Dalish hunter of her new title: the Herald of Andraste. Despite the fact that she had only been in that deep exhausted sleep for no more than a few days, the nickname-come-title was known by every citizen in Haven and had even reached the ears of the Chantry in Val Royeaux. Because of this strange turn, the Chantry itself had declared the Herald an abomination of sorts and all that followed her, including every member of the Inquisition, to be heretics.

"Mythal save me," Miriana murmured, her footsteps taking her along the stone walls of Haven, desperately seeking for a way out. Trained as she had been to keep continually on the move through both the wandering nature of the Dalish and the rigorous training of the Master Hunter, she had been circling the boundaries of Haven for close to an hour. Even though she longed to be among nature, to be gliding through trees or clinging haphazardly to the edge of a rocky cliff, she didn't dare make a move that could be interpreting as leaving Haven in any form.

Who she had been raised to be meant certain things about her personality. Being Dalish meant an ostensibly untarnished belief in the Elven culture that had been long ago destroyed. Even though she doubted their superiority over humans and city elves in the quiet of her own mind, she could never voice that opinion. But being raised a hunter made her both restless and ruthless. She needed to hunt, to feel the spirit of nature around her but also felt the brutal truth of her new reality.

"Lady Lavellan?"

Her brow furrowed at the title, Miriana turned to look at who called her name. While it was certain that she was no lady, she was the only member of Clan Lavellan within these walls. She was somewhat surprised to find Cullen there. But since he had addressed her with a title, she felt that she should return the favor. "Commander Rutherford."

"You… uh, seemed upset in there."

At that, Miriana pursed her lips, suddenly feeling as if she had bitten down on a lemon. This was not something that she could discuss with a human. Humans with their Maker and Andraste, who they called the "Bride of the Maker", even though she was relatively sure that Andraste had been a mortal woman. Humans who had no idea of the millennia of history and culture inherent in Elven heritage.

So, rather than offending the human by declaring that she did not believe in Andraste, she told him the other item that caused her dismay: the feeling of being a rodent in a trap. "I seem to be the face of the Inquisition, don't I?" She smiled, attempting to direct derisive humor at herself. Despite the feeling that being perceived as a herald of any sort of human god left her with, she would not reveal it to her human compatriots.

This was, after all, a very precarious position. No matter how she disdained her own situation, such feeling clearly expressed would likely draw her into their trigger-happy crosshairs.

At her false proclamation, Cullen visibly relaxed. "Indeed," he replied. "That does seem to be the case." He tilted his head, offering her a simple and uncomplicated smile. "Does that offend you?"

She was quick to proclaim the opposite, perhaps too quick. "No, not at all. Just… unexpected, I supposed. With my clan, I had just recently come of age. I am merely a hunter. I am no one of consequence."

He opened his mouth, surely to comment on her own regard for herself, when he suddenly thought better of it. At the second thought, his smile turned wry and bemused. "I know you can feel a bit like a rat in a trap here. If you wish to hunt, there's no need to remain in Haven. But if you do, I must insist that you see Harritt."

"Harritt?" Miriana echoed uncertainly.

"Our blacksmith. He will see that you are properly outfitted." With the air of someone that had solved a problem beautifully, Cullen offered her an acknowledging nod and left.

Once he was out of sight, the Dalish elf sighed in relief, nearly leaning against a nearby building with the emotion. However, it seemed that her sudden relaxation was to be short-lived.

"You're a horrible liar."

With a jerking start, she turned to face the voice, which belonged to Varric, their very own Storyteller. Miriana understood from the conversations between Cassandra, Solas, and the dwarf himself that Varric was an author of sorts. He seemed to have quite the list of adventures under his belt and used that experience to spin tales. She felt a small kinship with him, connected with him in a way that was unlikely to be found in another warrior.

"I am that," she finally conceded softly. "Luckily for me, Cullen seems poorly suited to sensing hidden motives."

Varric chuckled, shifting from one foot to the other on the snow-moist ground around a sputtering campfire he seemed to have claimed for himself. "Also poorly suited to the realization that an elf would hardly wish to be the Herald of a god that rightfully belongs to humans."

At that, Miriana was intrigued. As a Dalish, she had very little opportunity to socialize with other races. Varric, of course, was the first dwarf she had ever seen. She found it interesting that he seemed to know some information on Dalish elves. "You know our culture?"

He shrugged, turning away her interest and excitement as if he had done little to earn it. "I was allowed to watch a Dalish clan once. I learned quite a bit from their Storyteller."

Smirking at him, Miriana allowed herself to finally relax and set on one of the large logs near the fire. "Not near so much as you would have wished, I think."

Varric guffawed loudly, a happy grin gracing his face. "Very true. They are circumspect about what they tell outsiders."

At that, she blinked, remembering the many lessons about why their way of life was not for outsiders to know. Turning her mind away from that sour thought, she asked another question. "I have to wonder, why did they even let you watch as much as they did?"

Again, he shrugged and she was beginning to associate it with the fact that he was feeling some not-so-nice emotions. "There was a time… Well, suffice it to say I was once very interested in the evolution of your people but it was not a story that would have sold well."

Miriana gazed around, feeling distinctly hemmed in by the humans that surrounded her. "There is a reason the Dalish have chosen to isolate themselves from humans."

"You know, I asked a question once but they never answered."

A smile played at her lips. While the Dalish likely would have been more congenial toward the questions of a dwarf than of a human, there were still certain questions that not even an elf should ask. "If I know the answer, I'll tell you."

"Were elves really immortal?" Varric's grin was as broad as ever, indicating that he found the question itself to be the height of disbelief. It was clear that he did not believe that elves had ever been immortal, merely that he was searching for an elf's perspective on the idea.

But this was one of those questions, questions that Clan Lavellan required all elves to leave to the Beyond. Even if they had once been, they certainly weren't now, even though their lifespans could be as much as twice that of a human. Mahanon, though, had asked the question in the dark and quiet of night, when most other members of their clan were disinterested in lengthy discussions. Mahanon even had a theory as to how to regain their immortality – through magic and Elven artifacts, of course – but it was a theory that had to wait until he was Keeper.

Which, now, he would never be.

"I don't know," she finally managed around the block of grief in her throat. With a glance at the dwarf, she realized there was no way to properly explain the things that Mahanon had told her, no way to give voice to the wailings of mourning that silenced her. "I must go."

With that, she stood quickly and scampered off in the direction Cullen had pointed earlier. Perhaps a successful hunt would help to clear her mind.

Varric stared at the retreating figure of the Lavellan elf, unsure what he had done and quite certain that she was upset. He had upset enough people of both genders and all known civilized races to know that he'd somehow managed to put his foot in his mouth.

Again.

Normally, he would laugh it off, using his humor against the dark and demented world. Right now, however, that would not do. Despite how her newfound title among the peoples of Ferelden and Orlais, she had saved them from the danger the Breach presented and would likely do so again. Even though he was well aware that she hated being the "Herald of Andraste", she was exactly the savior that the world needed right now.

"What did I say?" he finally muttered aloud.

"She grieves."

Varric could feel that he nearly jumped out of his skin, proper payback for having startled Miriana previously. He turned to glare at the owner of the voice, Solas the elven mage. After a brief moment, his mind latched onto the elf's actual reply and the hardness of his gaze melted away. "She's grieving?"

"I have spent so much time in the Fade, I can sometimes glean the emotions of others," the mage answered, also answering the question of how in the world he would know his fellow elf was grieving. "She is feeling a deep sadness, the kind that is borne of loss."

For a moment, Varric thought of Bianca, both the crossbow itself and the woman for which it had gotten its name. He felt the loss keenly then but also knew that it was not the same sort of loss that had caused their Herald to flee his company. "Someone died."

"That, I believe, is true." Solas leaned gently against this mage staff, clearly feeling the exhaustion of recent days but obviously careful about putting his full weight against it. "It is certain that a great many lost loved ones when the Conclave exploded." His face twisted slightly, indicating to Varric that he was not fond of using such simple terms. "Perhaps she lost someone as well."

"You know, Chuckles, you're always a bright ray of sunshine," Varric replied wryly. "There's no way we can help her with that, especially if she won't talk about it." The dwarven author was a great believer in facing your past, for good or ill.

Solas shrugged, half turning away. Varric knew that their conversation would soon come to a quick end. "She is a Dalish hunter. They are unaccustomed to help from outsiders but are the protectors of the clan. I do not believe she will allow herself to grieve for long."


	2. Easing the Burden

Following a brief but free jaunt into the mountainous regions that surrounded Haven, Miriana had to admit that she felt much better. With the help of two very sturdy but not particular sharp daggers, she had captured five nugs, fully intending to take them to the kitchens before skinning them. She wasn't sure about the stability of human stomachs but she knew that many of the Dalish children and mages could barely stand to be near when she skinned her kills.

Harritt, the blacksmith, had apologized profusely, far more than she thought necessary, when she picked her daggers that had yet to be sharpened. It had taken a little more time than she had liked to convince him that small game kills did not necessarily require a sharp blade. It would take more agility than skill to kill much of the game that wandered outside of Haven. At the end of it, he had only let her take them if she promised to return them for the proper metalwork that they needed.

It was when she turned away from the blacksmith that she once again found herself faced with the large presence of the Inquisition's military commander. For a moment, she found herself taken aback. With his plate mail and ostentatiously feathered cloak, it transferred a man that was merely large to becoming almost giant in comparison to herself. In all her years, Miriana had only seen elves, somewhat smaller and always more slender than their human counterparts. To be suddenly faced with a man of such musculature and bearing was somewhat… off-putting.

"You've been busy," he noted idly, gesturing vaguely to her waist.

Looking down, she remembered the nugs that hung there. On her hunt, she had realized very quickly that she had no belt from which to hang the game that she would catch and had spent some extra time fashioning one from thick yet pliable tree bark. "I'm not proficient at idleness," she admitted.

"I freely admit I am the same," he replied with a light chuckle. She frowned at him a little, wondering at how he could be so easy in the presence of an elf. Did not humans hate their kind? Is that not why so many elves had been enslaved and subjugated for so long? Hurriedly, she smoothed her expression, fearing the worst from her human companions. "Is something the matter, Lady Lavellan?"

She stilled immediately, her body claiming that preternatural immobility that signaled her fight-or-flight response. "Nothing of importance, Commander Rutherford." She did her best to keep her words from seeming stiff and bitter but she was not quite sure she succeeded.

At her reply, he exhaled roughly, his eyes rolling upward for a moment. "I must insist that you call me Cullen."

Miriana relaxed at the realization that he merely wanted them to be comfortable with one another, not that he could somehow read her dismay. In retrospect, she thought that Cullen may not even realize her discomfort around humans. After all, the humans were great in number and she had done her utter best to keep her alarmed emotions tightly under wraps. "If that is the case, then you must call me Miriana. I am no lady."

"You hold yourself like one." He offered her a wry grin. "You seem so much the lady that I was quite surprised to find that you are a warrior."

Miriana laughed outright at that. "Nor am I that. The warriors of our clan are all men. Waging war is a game largely played by males. Most women have little stomach for it."

"Cassandra seems to find it suitable." Cullen's grin broadened, almost as if he was daring her to argue.

The small elf had to admit that it was true, the Seeker was nothing if not rough around the edges. But still… "The Seeker is no more a warrior than I am. We wage war out of necessity, not out of choice. The Templar dispute with the mages…" At that, Miriana trailed off and lifted one shoulder in a half-shrug. "That is something else altogether."

Cullen opened his mouth, prepared to argue the point, being a former Templar himself. However, his teeth clicked a mere moment following at the force of closing his mouth. "I suppose I must agree with you. Despite my opinion of mages, I still feel as if the Mage Rebellion could have been less consuming than it has become."

"It was why we came," Miriana admitted in a soft voice, her voice low enough that she hoped he did not hear her.

However, it seemed that such hopes would be more burdensome than true. "We?" he echoed uncertainly. "I was under the impression that you had journeyed to the Conclave on your own."

Miriana smirked self-depreciatingly. "Earlier, when I remarked on being of little import, I was not trying to disparage anything about myself. It is merely true." She glanced down at her hand, clenching it into a fist when the Mark flashed at her in dull green. "I believe that whatever bestowed this on me meant it for Mahanon."

"Who was Mahanon?" Though she paid little attention, a part of her realized that Cullen's voice had softened immensely, likely because he felt great concern for her.

"He was the First to the Keeper. Essentially, he was being trained as a successor to our clan's leader." She chuckled lightly, though her face still darkened in grief. "He was the most ambitious mage I have ever seen in my life."

At mentioning Mahanon being a mage, Miriana was surprised to see him flinch sharply, as she had been under the impression that he was one of the most open-minded people she had ever met. But then again, everyone had their prejudices. Sometimes, it took time to rise above it. Even now, the elf herself was doing her best to overcome over fifty years of strict human prejudice.

Finally, Cullen replied. "Yes, but who was he to you?"

"My best friend," she answered, her voice a low croak. Then she laughed, the sound cruel against her sadness. "My only friend, really. And with the Mage Rebellion infecting even the Dalish, I was the only hunter that he trusted implicitly."

"The Mage Rebellion affected the nomad elves?" Cullen seemed particularly surprised by this and Miriana couldn't help but notice that he didn't refer to them as Dalish.

"Oh, yes." She grinned, remembering some of the other elves around her age that had yet to return to the clan. "Elves are particularly suited to magic. It is rare to find elves that must be… um, what does the Chantry call it?"

"Made Tranquil?" Cullen offered.

"Yes, that." Her lips twisted into sour disgust. "As I said, we're particularly suited to magic. Even the hunters have some little ability but not enough to be considered a proper mage. Often, younger mages will go out into the world to further train themselves in magic. In fact, it's encouraged."

Cullen frowned deeply. "That sounds dangerous."

"It is," she admitted. "But you must realize, we are nomads, as you said. We wander through the wilds of Thedas and my clan in particular wanders frequently through the Free Marches. We have lost a significant number to the frigid cold." Miriana shrugged, remembering that her own initiation as a hunter had occurred in the Free Marches. "Danger comes with living. All Dalish must accept that fact."

"Yes, well…" The military commander seemed at a loss, unable to form words at her speech. Then, his dark eyes flicked into the distance just beyond her left shoulder. "Oh. Cassandra beckons."

Turning to face the Seeker, Miriana immediately noted that she was gesturing to the Chantry hall that seemed to be the center of Haven. "Right. Another meeting. I'll be in there shortly." She smiled up at the commander, her manner again making a joke at her expense. "I wouldn't want to further mar my reputation with Josephine and Leliana by showing up with a handful of dead nugs."

* * *

Cullen watched the Herald leave Haven with Cassandra, Solas, and Varric, idly wondering if this particular journey would turn out to be as fruitful as their ambassador seemed to hope. The main purpose for the group's journey to the Hinterlands was to meet with Mother Giselle and to garner whether the rumors of her disagreements with the Chantry over the Herald of Andraste were true. Additionally, the Herald herself stated that it would be a good idea to make her presence known, to increase her influence in the Hinterlands.

While Cullen was certain that this was a sound plan, he still worried for them. They were heading into the wilderness to face Fade rifts and the demons that tended to spew from them while he was forced to remain behind, training the citizens of Haven into some semblance of soldiers. After a moment, he was forced to remind himself that these jaunts into the wilds were necessary for the growth of the Inquisition.

It was necessary if they were ever to learn anything about what really happened at the Conclave.

In the quiet of his own heart, he worried most for Lady Lavellan. _Miriana,_ he chided himself uselessly, trying desperately to get used to the sound of her given name. The first element of his worry was that she was an elf. Despite the fact that their current group was comprised of another elf and a dwarf, the entire procession seemed to sway with Cassandra's whims, rather than the Herald's. It seemed unjust that she should bear the weight of healing their world while bowing to the preferences of people not of her own race.

Despite his own actions to the contrary, Cullen had some sense about what it must be like to be a Dalish elf among humans. While it was true that his previous interactions with elves had been that of city elves, those individuals that mocked themselves with the term "flat-ear", he was certain that being surrounded by humans from every direction could be somewhat claustrophobic. Given the humans ostensibly ruled over all of Thedas, he was quite sure that he would never be able to properly commiserate with her on this topic.

However, he did wish with some fervor that there was a way in which her attitude toward herself could be mitigated. It was obvious that her own position within her Dalish clan had left her with a horrid perception of her own worth. Cullen was of the personal belief that the Maker – and Andraste, by extension – did not make mistakes. Even though Miriana had clearly stated that she felt that the Mark had been meant for her friend, the former Templar Knight-Captain knew to the depths of his soul that it was Miriana that they needed. She wasn't so conceited that she would feel that helping Thedas was below her position but she was also truthful enough – so much as to be considered brutally truthful – that she realized the harsh certainty of this situation.

Finally, a slightly disdainful frown marring his normally placid expression, Cullen turned his focus back to his trainees. Ruminating in this way was winning him no favors with the Haven trainees. He knew in a way that he could not properly explain that things would likely get far worse before they got better.

The citizens of Haven needed to be as ready as he could make them.

* * *

In the darkness of that night, Miriana took the first watch and stared into the night, looking at shapes among the scattered stars. She had offered to take the first watch because despite the fact that they had all fought hard throughout the day to quell and close the Fade rifts spread throughout the Hinterlands, the effect of the Mark was still with her.

Unlike her perception from earlier days, the Mark was no longer thoroughly unnerving but still thrummed a disturbing tingle throughout her arm that often keep her awake through much of the night. Sometimes she wondered if she was receiving messages from the Fade, some vague residue left behind when she would close a rift, but knew that Mahanon was far better suited to such vagaries of thought than she.

"What's the Fade like?" she asked softly, knowing that Solas lay nearby. There was a slight stirring but no other indication that the pale elf had heard her words. At that, she smirked, finding it somewhat humorous that he pretended sleep. She knew what the breath of a sleeper sounded like and his was not it. "I know you're awake, Solas."

With a small frown of disappointment on his face, the older elf sat up and looked at her. "Am I so transparent?"

Miriana offered her fellow elf a gentle smile, knowing that he was jesting with her. "I am a hunter, Solas." She knew that she didn't need to offer another explanation. Like Mahanon, Solas could often read the undertones in her words.

"True," he conceded. "You asked… about the Fade?"

Miriana nodded, glancing sideways at him before returned her gaze to the stars. "Cassandra is of the mind that the Fade only consists of demons, considering that's what the rifts spit out. But she is a Templar… of a sort, so I can't expect her to overly circumspect of things beyond her ken."

Solas grinned sardonically, his eyes twinkling with playfulness. "You seem to have a low opinion of Templars," he remarked.

"Only exacerbated by our time here in the Hinterlands, I assure you," she replied in a flat tone. At that, Miriana fought the urge to rub her left side under her ribcage where a particular forceful shield bash from a Templar's tower shield had left a deep and ugly bruise.

It was too bad that healing was not one of the low-level magicks of which she had mastery.

"Even so," she continued after what felt like a long moment, "just as Thedas is not merely a realm of humans, I am quite certain that the Fade cannot only consist of demons."

"It doesn't," Solas conceded. He paused there, turning his face to finally look at the stars with her. Idly, she wondered what he saw, with his peculiar ability to step into the Fade in his dreams and always to be able to see beyond the surface of things. "With my particular skill, which I mentioned to you in Haven, I have spent as much time in the Fade as out of it."

Miriana nodded, pulling her knees to her chest. Curled tightly into a small space, she no longer saw the stars, though she still faced the sky. Instead, she focused solely on Solas's words, hoping to draw imagery from that instead.

"I told you before that I would often visit ruins and long abandoned landscapes, places where the Veil was thin. There, with my barriers and wards in place, I would allow myself to dream, to view the memories held within the Fade." He sighed, his mind obviously turned to one of the many memories he had witnessed. "You are right, the Fade is not a realm of demons, no more than Thedas is a realm of humans. It is, more accurately, a realm of spirits."

"Spirits?" Miriana echoed softly. Her eyes darted from left to right and back quickly, searching her mind for where she had heard the term before. "Ma – My friend mentioned something like that once. He would often study the Fade, trying to find answers in the things that we couldn't see."

Though she didn't see his reaction to her slip, Solas's face gentled considerably, his lips almost turning down into a frown at the almost-mention of the person that it was obvious she had lost. "Yes, I believe that even those entities that we recognize as demons are merely spirits, merely of a more forceful and less attractive sort."

"How so?"

"I've seen spirits of compassion, of kindness, of humility. Though they are often less corporeal than the demons we seem to fight almost hourly, their forms are as pleasant as that of a dear friend. But the spirits we battle are those of vengeance, of envy, of pride. Like the emotions they represent, demons not only demand our attention but their forms are often mangled and warped reflections of things we might otherwise consider pleasant."

Miriana nodded yet again, trying desperately to convey her understanding. Though Solas was very nearly a city elf, close enough to be considered a flat-ear by most of her less imaginative brethren, he knew far more about the Beyond than anyone she had ever met. While it was certain the Mahanon had studied it, no study could even approach that which Solas boasted. However, as a hunter, she knew that most would not expect her intelligence to be particularly brilliant. In fact, most other hunters of Clan Lavellan were as dull as bricks and about as useful.

She reminded herself of the way her father had always described her: the heart of a hunter, the mind of a mage.

"No realm is split evenly between the good and the bad," she remarked. Her lips curved upward sardonically. "One can only hope that we can tell the difference."


	3. Difficult Decisions

Miriana frowned to herself as she opened the door to Ambassador Montilyet's office in Haven's Chantry Hall. She wasn't exactly sure why the ambassador had requested her presence but she had long since decided to prepare for the worst any time a human specifically called her to them.

She shook her head and opened the door, trying the shake the feeling of the walls closing in on her. Josephine was sitting placidly behind her desk, scribbling furiously away at that clipboard with the candle. After a moment, she noticed the Herald's presence and set her work aside. "Madame Lavellan, you're here. I needed to inquire… have you experienced any insults or ridicule during your time here at Haven?"

At that, Miriana snorted, unable to believe her ears. "Please tell me you did not call me in here to ask if I've been bullied." When Josephine merely raised an eyebrow, the elf shook her head and laughed. "If you want to know if anyone's called me a 'knife-ear', the answer's no."

"That is good. I had heard… rumors."

The elf's bemused expression fell away, knowing innately what rumors the ambassador spoke of. During her initial journey to Haven and among its citizens when she was still believed to have murdered the Divine, she had heard humans whisper – whisper, not knowing that elves tend to have a greater sensitivity of hearing – about the Dalish kidnapping newborns, raiding entire villages merely to spite humans, and a great deal of other things that not even many elves had the imagination to conjure. "I know," she conceded. "I would say that such rumors are dangerous but quashing them would likely compel them to spread more quickly. I hope to soon have enough friends here that such rumors would not be believed."

At that, Josephine nodded, a slight twitch around her lips indicating she may have wished to say something further. However, she then segued into a slightly different topic. "We also received a missive from the Lavellan Keeper as well as a brief note from the Clan's Storyteller." She frowned at that. "Is there some connection there?"

Miriana smiled broadly at the second scroll that was handed to her, her spirits buoyed by the sight of her father's special brand of grandiose and poetic praise. "Era Lavellan, our Storyteller, is my father. The Master Hunter, Mi, my mother." She turned her gaze to Josephine, her eyes glittering with humor. "They say, she is the blade, he is the story." Then she focused her attention of the parchment again. "The Keeper used as much Elven as possible."

"I noticed the fragmentation." Josephine smiled up at the Herald, attempting to match the elf's good humor. This was the first time she had seen the Lavellan smile, let alone grin as she was doing now. "I must admit, Leliana was sorely tempted to translate it."

Miriana glanced over the missives again. The note from her father was written almost entirely in the common tongue, praising her efforts and the turn of Fate as well as promising many more letters in the future. The Keeper's letter was more formal but written in a brighter note than she had expected. Truthfully, she had been bracing herself for a lashing, buffered as it would have been by the written word.

"There's no real need," the elf admitted, coming around the desk to stand by Josephine's side. "The Keeper's letter is half in Elven because that's how our leaders communicate. In order to keep our culture alive, we are encouraged to speak in the Elven tongue as often as possible. Every Dalish child can recite every known Elvish phrase by the age of six. It is not as… encompassing as we lead outsiders to believe."

"That's… actually disappointing." Josephine smiled up at the elf that now stood next to her. "Am I about to learn something?"

"One can hope," Miriana murmured with a wry smirk. She then began to point out the Elvish passages in the letter. "Here, the Keeper asks about Mahanon." Josephine's brow furrowed in confusion but she kept silent in the hope that the elf would explain the name. "She rightly assumes he perished in the blast at the Conclave. She mourns his loss and laments the need to fill his space." At that, Miriana sighed and the ambassador could now clearly note the sadness in her expression, a mourning twist to her face that now never seemed absent. "She then commends my choice on aligning myself in such a way with outsiders. For the glory of the Dalish, of course. She concludes by wishing me health and fortune in my future ventures."

Reflecting on the sections of the letter that she had been able to read, Josephine wondered at the Keeper's low level of curiosity or regard for Miriana herself. After a moment's thought, however, she had to concede that any questions the clan leader would have had could have been answered by the elven agent that had been sent. With a nod, she moved on to the next topic. "Have you decided between the Templars and the rebel mages?"

At that, the elf arched a questioning eyebrow. "I was not aware it was my decision to make."

Josephine smiled softly. "Miriana, you are the one out there closing rifts and increasing the name and influence of the Inquisition. You may not have instituted it but yours is the face that the people of Thedas recognize."

Miriana inclined her head slightly. "That much may be true. I have certainly tired of my… new title. However, having been involved in some of the skirmishes between the Templars and the mage, I have to say that I have no real love for either at this moment. For now, the decision is left to the advisors."

The ambassador nodded, though she secretly felt it would be much easier if the Herald would make the decision for them. They hadn't gotten far between the discussions among the three of them. "Right. Hopefully, that decision will soon be forthcoming."

* * *

Solas rolled over on the ground, silently cursing himself for his inability to sleep. They were, once again, camped out on rugged terrain and he was inexplicably incapable of falling into the Fade sleep that was so familiar to him. Was it because he was no longer alone? Did he somehow mistrust his new allies? He had thrown his lot in with the Inquisition. Unless he wanted to draw their curiosity, he couldn't risk such a thoughtless action as leaving without notice.

Suddenly, he could hear the soft sounds of someone singing. The volume and pitch was of someone who desperately did not want to wake her companions but could not bear to stop the flow of words erupting from her. Sitting up and turning his head to the right, to the edge of their camp, Solas saw Miriana just as she had been a few nights prior, her knees folded gracefully against her torso and her face turned up to the starlit sky.

The words of her song were Elvish and ancient. In fact, the only other time he had heard it was deep in the Fade when he had managed to stumble across a temple to the Elven Pantheon in an ancient Elven ruin. It was where he had first met the Spirit of Wisdom, one of the many spirits he called friend. This particular song was a benediction to Mythal, the Great Protector, the Elven goddess of motherhood and justice.

To be sure, the song was far more fractured and fragmented than the one he had heard in the Fade. But Miriana's song was filled with Elvish phrases that he had been sure were long lost to the Dalish elves. For the first time since he had promised himself he would no longer be a party to the surprising ignorance and arrogance of the Dalish, something he had realized when they refused to believe his information regard the Beyond, he wondered if he had judged them too soon. Of course, having no contact with the Lavellan clan itself, it was possible that they had more of the Elven culture than any of the other Dalish clans.

Rising to his feet, he meandered with soft steps to the side of his fellow elf. "That was beautiful," he murmured, resting a gentle hand on her shoulder.

The muscles of Miriana's shoulder jerked under his palm, informing him that she had thought herself alone. Finally, though, she looked up at him with a tremulous smile. "Solas, you startled me."

He rewarded her with the vague whisper of a smile. "I didn't think that was possible."

She lifted one shoulder, the one he was holding, in a half-shrug. "I've been distracted."

Slightly concerned at her dispirited replies, Solas removed his hand from her shoulder and took it upon himself to sit next to her. "My friend, what is wrong?"

At his proclamation of their friendship, Miriana's silver eyes lit up substantially. "Really? You think we're friends?"

Solas's smile broadened, though his internal sadness increased at such a response. "Of course." Inclining his head slightly, he asked a question that almost felt too bold, that felt as if it might cross some interminable line that the other elf had drawn for herself. "Who did you lose at the Conclave?"

"My friend, Mahonan Lavellan." She gazed at the glowing Mark on her left hand and added in a whisper, "He was the important one."

Thinking back to his knowledge of the Dalish, knowledge that had been painstakingly forged by his continuing visits to various clans wherever he could find them, he knew that there were only three members of a Dalish clan that were considered important: the Keeper, essentially the decision-maker of the clan; the Storyteller, the person that knew all lore and knowledge of the ancient elves available to them; and the First to the Keeper, the successor to leadership. All other members of the clan were considered integral to the function of the clan but ultimately replaceable. Even the Second to the Keeper could be replaced, should a more promising mage make himself known.

"He was the First, wasn't he?" Solas asked in a murmur.

"He was." Miriana smiled wistfully, the expression so happy and yet so sad at the same time. "He was younger than me, almost four years younger, but so important. He was convinced that he could bring us, the Lavellan, back to the heights of the ancient elves." At that, she abruptly brought a hand up to her mouth, her bright eyes wide in horror.

The elven mage merely cocked his head and smirked at her. "You're not supposed to speak of it?" he queried.

She shook her head vehemently, telling him that even her clan had its strict rules. The Lavellan clan seemed to be more open than any other he had visited, concerned enough with the affairs of the world to send a spy to the Conclave but lacking enough hatred of the humans to censure the Herald for her association with them now. But maybe that objective perspective could only be given because he had seen them at a distance.

However, if they were more like Miriana herself, he feared that he had greatly misjudged the Dalish clans as a whole.

"Your friend has been gone for some time but you are quite distracted recently. What happened?"

"Keeper Lavellan replied," she told him, her tone indicating some level of spite that he knew Dalish members were not supposed to feel toward their leader.

He looked at her, hoping his silence would engender a furthering of her response. However, as he waited, her countenance only darkened, her silver eyes focused on some point past his nose. "I'm not certain that this is a problem."

"It's not," she asserted through gritted teeth. For a moment, her eyes darted back and forth before finally losing a battle within herself. "Her greatest concern was the loss of Mahonan. I understand, losing the First is very problematic to our clan, but seeing him dead…" At that, her voice trailed away, the darkness in her face melting in the face of helpless grief. "And then she wished me luck!"

At the dismay in her voice, Solas chuckled softly. "And that is a bad thing?"

"Because I understood Mahonan, often when no one else did, I understand our Keeper now. She hopes that my newfound influence will further the cause of the Dalish. She did not extend her regards to my human keepers and she did not even seem to care about the hole in the sky."

"They're not your keepers, Miriana," Solas told her firmly. "I doubt they wish to hold you against your will."

"But I can't leave, can I? Not even if I wished to." She held up her glowing hand, sneering at the Mark. "Not when this is the best thing to a solution to the Breach that we have." After that, she seemed to deflate, cradling the green glow against her chest. "Ir abelas," she murmured in Elvish, professing the depth of her apology in a way the common language could never truly convey.

In a rare display of affection, though it was for a person that he already considered a friend, Solas reached an arm around to the shoulder opposite him and hugged her very slightly to his person. "Ir abelas," he replied, using the phrase not only to convey his sorrow to her loss but also to accept her apology in turn.

* * *

Val Royeaux had not turned out at all like they had expected.

That would be putting it mildly, Varric decided. Yes, the Chantry had lost much of their voice, though that had less to do with the Inquisition and more to do with the loss of Templar support. The dwarf had watched Lord Seeker Lucius pull his men from the side of the Chantry, had been appalled to the deep core of him that believed in Andraste when he had struck a member of the Chantry. He was also dismayed that a part of him had been relieved at the strike to the grand cleric, in that it had ended that righteous but error-filled speech.

Now, however, he watched Miriana thread herself endlessly around Haven, circling the boundaries of their walls and often even circling buildings themselves. Over the past few days, he had begun to realize why she would do this. On the journeys outside, to the Hinterlands or the Fallow Mire or the Storm Coast, she moved with a determination that told him that she knew where she was going and what she would need to do. This endless circling often only occurred when she was battling with herself or she wasn't sure what to do.

"Herald!" he called out when she passed near him. "Make a decision yet?"

Miriana stilled suddenly into the preternatural silence that gripped her just before an onslaught from the rifts. Then, she seemed to remember where she was and turned to give Varric a small smile. "Am I that transparent?"

Varric shrugged, entirely unsure if others could see what he saw or even if they were watchful enough to look for it. "So, which way are we going? Mages or Templars?"

"Mages," she told him with a sad sigh.

He arched a querulous eyebrow at her. "You've know this for a while, then?"

"Since Val Royeaux, yes." She sighed again and raised her fingers to fidget with the point ends of her ears, something he recognized as a nervous gesture. "Cullen will not be happy with me."

Varric grinned at that comment, his eyes alight with intrigue. "Oh, you like Curly?"

For a moment, her expression became angry and he wondered if he was about to receive the wrong end of the tongue that had given Chancellor Roderick a lashing. Then, the expression reverted to blandness. "I can't like him. That would be abominable."

"Abominable?" the dwarf echoed. "He's not that bad-looking, Miri." At the shortening of her name, the ghost of a smile whispered across her face and he filed it away, vowing to ask her about it when the situation was less fraught.

"No, I'll grant that." She looked away and if she wasn't so often every inch the consummate professional, he would think she had a dreamy look in her eye. "But I'm Dalish."

"Here, you're not." Pulling slightly on the sleeve on her armor, he led her to his campfire, urging her to sit down and listen to him. "I know you've been raised Dalish and that's been a big part of who you are for a very long time. Maybe you hated humans before the Conclave and the way they treated you after, I wouldn't blame you."

"I never did," she interjected softly.

"What?" he asked, not sure if he heard her correctly. As he'd told her before, he had spent time with a Dalish clan and he knew firsthand their level of spite for humans.

"I've never hated humans. The Dalish are no more the stories of ancient elves than humans are the ancient Tevinter that first enslaved them. I used to be curious but I learned to hide that." She looked down at her hands, twisting them together in her lap. "Solas is right. Elves and humans aren't so different."

Before he could fully discuss with himself the implications that Miriana actually cared for the humans around her rather than suffering their presence, Varric forced himself back to the topic at hand. "Anyway, most people in Haven don't see Dalish when they look at you. They see the Herald of Andraste. They see the savior. They see the woman that tried to help the Divine."

"I understand," she told him. "It's hard to swallow, though, being the Herald. Being something bigger than I am."

"So, whatever you choose, your advisors will support you. Even if it goes sideways, they will support you."

Miriana put her head in her hands and he could see the pulsing glow of the Mark reflect against her cheek. Finally, she took a deep breath. "Right, then. Get your stuff together and inform Solas and Cassandra. We're headed for Redcliffe."


	4. Dangers of the Arcane

"Mythal, preserve us," Miriana murmured in an exhaled breath, taking in her surroundings with some trepidation. Following Alexius's spell, they had been flung to some far corner of Redcliffe Castle. However, in the deep core of her being, the elf knew that something else had occurred. The strange Tevinter mage, Dorian of House Pavus, had mentioned the magister's foray into time magic and she had to wonder if the wrongness that tingled across the surface of her skin had something to do with that.

Upon entering Redcliffe, conscripting the rebel mages to the Inquisition's cause had turned out to be a stickier situation than she had first assumed. While she had been fully aware that it wasn't going to be as simple as declaring that she had chosen the mages over the Templars before gaining them as an ally, she had been fully unprepared for the interference of the Tevinter Imperium. The magister known as Alexius had apparently full ownership of the mages that had fled the Circle of Magi, even to the point that her conversation with Fiona just outside of Val Royeaux could not be remembered by the woman herself.

Looking around yet again, Miriana had to admit that her decision to recruit the rebel mages had gone horribly awry. Not only had control of the aforementioned potential allies been wrested from the Orlesian enchanter, but the one that had taken the reins of that control was part of a Tevinter supremacist group known as the Venatori and was in service to some creature known as the Elder One.

_The Elder One?_ the elf thought to herself with a sneer. _What kind of person… or thing would refer to himself as "the Elder One"?_

"My dear Herald," Dorian began, "if we are to discover what Alexius has done to us, I would suggest we move beyond the confines of this room."

Miriana turned on him, her silver eyes flashing dangerously, causing the mage to take two very exact steps away from her. "I am aware of that, Dorian. Do you have a suggestion?" She rolled her shoulders, trying to dispel both her tension and the feeling that something bad was coming from her frame. "Given that even an interrupted spell did something indeterminate to us, I doubt we should face your magister friend with just the two of us."

Dorian tilted his head at her, a smile blossoming across his face. "I wasn't aware that you possessed knowledge of the arcane, Herald."

"I am not some backwater proletarian!" She sighed, calming herself by pressing the pointed tips of her ears to the sides of her head and then releasing them. "And my name is Miriana. I prefer not to be called the Herald."

"Naturally," he replied, his demeanor having reverted to unimpeachable calm. "And you are correct. I doubt the two of us could overcome Alexius merely through the wishing of it. I suppose you have assumed we have been flung through time as well?"

Miriana nodded at the assumption. "It feels wrong, like someone poured oil on my skin."

"Huh," Dorian murmured as they finally moved together to leave the room. "That's odd."

Accessing the lockpicking set on her belt, the elf began maneuvering the locked door with ease, only allowing herself a brief moment to offer Dorian an arched eyebrow in askance. "How so?"

"Well, with this kind of magic, I had assumed that only mages would be able to feel the side effects." She could feel him eyeing her even as the lock finally released under her ministrations. "I find it odd that a roguish hunter type can feel that."

She shrugged, desperate to control the disdain that flittered across her face before facing the foreign mage. "It is strange," she conceded.

Placing a firm hand on her shoulder and urging her body to face him but not in time to witness her negative expression, he attempted an encouraging smile. "Wish to tell me why you can feel it?"

"The Mark, maybe," she offered, knowing already that it was a lie. She held her hand that glowed green in the muted light that surrounded them. "Regardless, we don't have time to speculate about any abilities I may or may not have to sense magic, Dorian. We'll head to the prisons first. Hopefully, if we were thrown into the future, our friends will be imprisoned and not yet dead."

He nodded his assent but grinned broadly at her assumption. "The future, is it? How can you know we weren't thrown into the past?"

Rather than feel offended, Miriana recognized that Dorian was trying to pull her into a philosophical debate, either because it was in his nature to do so or because he needed distraction from the reality of their situation. Through her friendships with Mahonan and Solas both, she was prepared for it but felt the need to move them forward without distraction. "I'm sure you feel it, mage that you are. I do not know that the past has ever felt this foreboding."

"No," Dorian murmured, his mind suddenly far away. "I suppose you are correct."

* * *

Miriana watched in horror and vague approval when Leliana noticed her and snapped the neck of her interrogator with just the strength of her thighs. Noting the gaunt skin and exhaustion that clung to her spymaster like a disease, the elf had to assume that the strength in her had been little indeed.

Cassandra and Varric had been found immediately upon their perusal of the dungeons, the spirits raw and downcast and their bodies imbued with a strange red glow. They had been in awe of her appearance and between the two of them, Miriana was fully aware that they now believed with renewed force that she was in fact the Herald of Andraste. That thought alone made her want to gnash her teeth but she knew there were more important matters than straightening out a mess that may not matter in the long run.

Grand Enchanter Fiona, on the other hand, was not to be so easily saved. It had been horrifying to witness her predicament, something that made her equal Varric's spite for red lyrium. Half of the mage's body had been covered in the malignant lyrium stone, her efforts to convey her wonder at the Herald's sudden reappearance and disappointment in her own failure echoing a familiar pain in Miriana's chest, a pain that she had not even dared to share with Mahonan.

To fail so completely? There was nothing to match that feeling.

Now, to see Leliana in her current state? Miriana felt as if her heart would shatter, would stutter to a stop. If Leliana, her strong and cunning spymaster, had been reduced to this in her absence, what had happened to Josephine, to Cullen? To Solas and Sera and Iron Bull and Lady Vivienne and Warden Blackwell?

When had so many lives become dependent on her success?

As if no time at all had passed, the group found themselves in the throne room of Redcliffe Castle, where Magister Alexius had fortified himself in paranoia. Even as Leliana slit the magister's throat, Miriana was silent, only recognizing that her brooding silence had caused her to miss their journey from the torture chamber. Even as her spymaster ordered Cassandra and Varric to defend against the forces that would soon descend upon them and Dorian worked furiously to reverse the spell that Alexius had cast both a few hours and several months ago, Miriana drew together her shattered courage and approached Leliana.

"What happened to everyone else?"

The master spy looked back at the elf with emotionless eyes. Miriana almost flinched in the face of such a flat gaze but held her ground as well as could be expected. "Dead… or worse. The Elder One keeps Josie for his own amusement. Your companions scattered or died in the face of the Venatori. So, Sera, Bull, Blackwell, all dead." She paused and inhaled deeply. "Cullen, as well."

This time, Miriana felt something in her chest rend apart at the mention of the man with which she had been trying her hardest to fend off any and all attraction. Despite her earlier efforts at facial control, she knew now that her expression had collapsed into despair. "No," she murmured in a breathless whisper.

"I thought as much." In a rare show of gentle affection, Leliana grabbed the Herald's hand and squeezed gently. "If this works, you will have erased all of that. I may not understand the Dalish but I know well enough that wasting time is foolish, no matter your upbringing." At that, the doors burst open and a flicker of a glance revealed the fallen bodies of Cassandra and Varric. In response, Leliana pushed Miriana hard toward Dorian and his spell, causing the elf to stumble before she caught her footing. "Go! Now!"

As the bright blue light closed around them, as Leliana's pure and divine bravery was rewarded only with a bloody death, Miriana swore that she would never forget the sacrifices that her friends should never have to make.

* * *

"Hey, Boss."

Miriana tilted the angle of her head to witness the Qunari mercenary, Iron Bull, settling himself next to her. In each hand was a wooden stein, ostensibly containing some type of alcohol. The elf suddenly felt the urge for honey mead but knew that the big man's tastes ran more toward ale. She grimaced at the thought.

Ale was so bitter.

She nodded at him silently and accepted the stein, taking a small sip with no small amount of trepidation. She was pleasantly surprised at the muted sweetness that met her tongue, the familiar taste of honey mead somehow managing to calm her still-raw nerves. "How'd you know?"

The mercenary spy shrugged, a big heaving movement that rippled across his muscled frame. "Didn't, actually. Flissa apparently keeps an entire case behind the bar just for you. Said watching you drink ale was painful." He guffawed at that. "You elves and your sensitivity, huh?"

"Maybe it's because I'm Dalish," Miriana murmured in reply, her overall spirit muted and downcast. Despite the feeling of accomplishment that her final choice should have instilled in her, she was having some difficulty dragging herself out of the dark future that she had witnessed. Now, remembering the future Leliana's final words to her, she looked up at Iron Bull and all words lodged in her throat, her emotions struggling at the idea of this charismatic and devout creature dead because of her.

She knew that he didn't necessarily approve of her choice to bring the mages to Haven as free allies rather than conscripting them. She also knew that a certain blond military commander likely agreed with him, so clear could see picture Cullen's disapproval in her mind. However, she couldn't fail to accept them as free allies. Had she chosen to conscript them, it would have been like spitting on Mahonan's cold corpse, not to mention how it would have been hypocritical to her personal views on slavery.

Ignoring her response, upon which Bull would not have been able expand without coming across as extremely offensive, the large Qunari moved the conversation along on his own steam. "The dwarf told me you'd planned to kick up your heels, so to speak, before we had to face the big tear in the sky. Gotta say," he added as he gazed pointedly at their surroundings, "didn't expect you to be in the war room."

Miriana shrugged, her olive skin blushing muted pink at the accusation. "I wasn't working," she stated in an attempt to defend herself.

Iron Bull eyed the table in front of them with a significant expression. "Of course not," he replied placidly, his voice dripping with amused sarcasm. "Not the blessed Herald of Andraste."

At the unexpected jab at her title, the elf guffawed loudly, both amused and appalled at the noise that erupted from her throat. Now that she had laughed, though, she could feel that some of the tension in her chest and shoulders had lessened. "Not nice, Bull."

He nudged her very gently with the edge of his very broad shoulder and offered her a wide grin. "I'm no good with melancholy, Boss. Well, any emotion, probably. The Qun has little place for it."

Reaching up, Miriana patted the Qunari on the arm. Between the two of them, there was something of an understanding. She didn't understand the Qun; he didn't completely understand the Dalish, though he had gotten pretty close for an outsider. Even though he employed two elves in the Chargers, one of which bore the vallaslin of the Dalish, understanding those that sought to live as they felt all elves should did not come easily.

"I'm a little better now. I think. It's just…" At that, Miriana trailed off, not sure how to properly articulate the horrible knowledge that Alexius's time spell had afforded her.

"Varric told me some." While Iron Bull's expression sobered as they moved into serious conversation, she could still sense a low level of mirth in his face. "That dwarf can spin a tale on little knowledge and less experience. He would have been an asset to the Ben-Hassrath."

"He told you some crazy magister sent me and Dorian into the future, even though I'm pretty sure he was trying to erase me from time altogether." When she had first begun the sentence, it was meant to be a question, offering him her disbelief. Somehow, in the space of seconds, it had transformed into some sort of confession. "I saw Leliana tortured, starved, saw my friends nearly poisoned with red lyrium, Fiona – who I know you are not on good terms with – being swallowed up by red lyrium growing out of her." She looked up, her silver eyes sad and horrified. "Do you know what this experience told me?"

The Qunari winced slightly and Miriana could tell that whatever he had guessed might be close. "What?"

"If I fail, my friends will pay the price. You, Solas, Cullen… How could I be okay with that?"

At that question, the mirth fell away from Bull's face and she knew that this was the height of seriousness for the man in front of her. "You can't, you won't be okay with that. But you have to be." He sighed briefly and shrugged his shoulders helplessly. "If you had grown up under the Qun, it might have been more bearable. The tenets of honor and duty are drilled into us from birth. Then it would be less about knowing the cost and more about knowing what had to be done."

At that, Miriana's melancholy settled again, feeling a trance-like calmness settle over her at his description. "It's about making the hard decisions," she added, agreeing with his assessment. "Seal the Breach, defeat the Elder One, return order and peace to Thedas."

Tilting back the remainder of his ale into his mouth, Bull grinned again. "Little bit at a time, Herald. Let's just focus on step one: plugging up that damned green hole in the sky."

Miriana smirked at him, retrieving her half-empty stein and making her way to the door. "You always say the nicest things," she replied sardonically.


	5. Surviving Against All Odds

Miriana stared up at the droning creature in front of her, idly wondering how exactly she had gone from a barely acknowledged hunter of Clan Lavellan to almost fearlessly facing down "the will that is Corypheus." In the next moment, she wished that Solas was nearby, his calm presence perhaps bolstering her own natural courage. Facing down Corypheus was not an easy thing and she regretted that there was such a high likelihood that she would also die, sacrificing herself for the safety of more than a hundred humans, a few elves, a Qunari, and a dwarf.

What would Solas tell her right now? If she could think of the words, maybe her current bravado would hold until Cullen sent her the signal that Haven's citizens were clear and she could fire the trebuchet. Would her fellow elf see Corypheus as she saw him? As a warped human, his darkspawn nature obvious in the red lyrium shards jutting from his face and the unnatural elongation of his limbs? Or would Solas see something better, something more profound and beautiful than this creature's physical nature?

Maybe she would never know.

She heard but barely recognized Corypheus's lectures and her own responses. She tended to ask questions and she was sure she did so, but the answers were so bound up with arrogance and pomposity that she was unsure if she'd ever had time to unravel their meaning. This level of self-importance was actually angering her, to the point that it was almost counteracting her fear of him and his dragon.

"Hubris is his weakness. His hubris will lead to his downfall." Like magic, the words in Solas's voice echoed through her mind. She had no illusions about it, though; this was her own mind supplying the right words but in the voice from which she needed to hear them.

As soon as she heard the words in her mind, she looked into the distance beyond the dragon, keeping a watch for the signal. Then, a flare of fire was thrown into the air and Miriana smiled widely. If she survived this, she may have to hug Cullen.

"Your arrogance blinds you," she told the darkspawn in front of her, interjecting among his current tirade about… what was it? Oh, right, not being able to "suffer even an unknowing rival." Her smile broadened a bit, giving her face a dangerous glint, as she hefted the weapon in her hands. "That's good to know." With a fluid movement, she gave the trigger mechanism a hard kick and rolled under the spinning lever, running toward the Chantry Hall as fast as she could manage.

Just as she conceded to herself that this attempt to escape the aftermath of her own actions was likely futile, the force of the coming avalanche blew her off her feet and her flying body came down hard, somehow managing to fall between the boards of a nearby platform. She had no time to discover how exactly she had managed to survive something that should have, by all rights, killed her before darkness overwhelmed her vision.

* * *

There was no telling how much time had been wasted in the forced unconsciousness. When Miriana finally lifted out of the black stupor, she found herself chilled but more or less comfortable in a system of caves under Haven. Glancing around, she attempted to stretch out her strained muscles under her armor. She was relatively certain that the fall had left her bruised and in a moderate amount of pain but no bones seemed to be broken.

Thanking the Great Protector for her run of good luck, Miriana threaded her way through the tunneled caves, wondering idly if no one in Haven had been aware of their existence. Or perhaps they were a part of the Pilgrim's Path that Chancellor Roderick had mentioned. Continuing her strange twist of good luck, she managed to run into only two demons, at which she discovered a new power in her Mark.

The "Anchor", as Corypheus had called it, must not be as simple as the way in which she had been using it. She wondered idly if the focal power of the orb that the darkspawn had been carrying had been absorbed by her.

Shaking her head of her wandering thoughts, she focused on the path in front of her, smiling softly to herself when she noticed that the opening of the cave broaden and lighten as she moved forward. However, upon reaching the mouth of the cave, she grimaced at the sight that greeted her: a mountaintop snowstorm just shy of a true blizzard. She hissed her displeasure through gritted teeth but dutifully stepped out into the storm. She reminded herself that she had been through much worse; Clan Lavellan had actually moved their camp in the midst of blizzards, in fact. Miriana herself had been asked to complete her hunter initiation in the midst of freezing conditions that were not much better than this.

However, the truth of the current matter was that she had no real idea in what direction the remaining forces of the Inquisition had gone and she had no idea how far away they were by now. If she had been asleep for too long, she would have little to no luck in picking up their trail, not in these conditions. Furthermore, it was entirely likely that the people in question had left her for dead, fully believing that the avalanche that could have killed her had done so quite effectively.

With an unhappy sigh, the elven hunter stepped out into the inclement weather and began in the direction that seemed to hold the most promise. This direction started from the edge of some scaffolding that seemed to lead away from the caves and left her in snowdrifts that were at least a foot deep. Ignoring her own growing frustration at the entire situation, Miriana forced herself to move, keeping her hand in front of her eyes to mitigate some of the freezing wind that was forcing her to squint.

In a brief moment of providence, the wind died down, allowing her to lower her arm and stretch away the new ache. However, at the same time, she noticed a light in the distance, a familiar light. It was the muted orange glow of campfire and had this moment not been given, she would have no idea that her friends were so close.

As it was, the wind kicked up again, forcing her arm back into position. But now she smiled to herself. She would catch up to them.

* * *

Guilt.

It throbbed in his chest, hungry and angry, threatening to engulf his entire being. Granted, Solas was not immune to or unfamiliar with the effects of guilt. It ate at him every time he tried to bring his knowledge to the Dalish clans. Though it irked at him that the isolationist elven clans refused to hear anything that did not coincide with their own romanticized versions of the past, he was also given to guilt merely for the fact that he had not tried harder, had not successfully convinced them to hear him.

"Chuckles, calm down, will you?"

Solas turned his gaze to Varric, slightly irritated that the dwarf seemed so settled. His nerves did not seem to be adversely affected by the absence of their so-called "savior". "I am quite calm, I assure you," the elf replied in a bored tone.

Varric snorted at the statement, a subdued grin blossoming across his face. "Sure, and I'm the King of Orzammar." He looked up at the tightly-strung elf and remarked, "If you were any more worried, you'd be pacing around the fire." He chuckled softly to himself then. "I should know the signs. I'm a worrier, myself."

Solas sighed and allowed his expression to smooth into more comfortable lines. "We should never have left her behind."

"Do you really see her letting us stay to face the Elder One with her?" Varric asked, one arched eyebrow projecting humor into the question.

For a moment, the older elf thought about the question, really thought about it. Was there a chance that Miriana would have allowed them to help? Would she have risked their lives to counterbalance any weakness on her part? "No," Solas conceded, bowing his head at Varric's point. "She would not have risked us for her own comfort. It would not even occur to her to do so."

Varric offered the elf a gentle half-smile. "Sometimes, our best friends end up making the worst decisions."

Solas tilted his head, his expression showing sympathy for something Varric had likely felt some time ago. "Hawke?"

The dwarf shrugged, an action Solas recognized from when he would ask questions that hit a little too close to the truth. "Miri did say she was from the Marches, though. Maybe she's used to this kind of weather. That is, if she…" At that, Varric trailed off, not even wanting to voice the thought that she could be dead.

Solas remained silent, brooding at that possibility. He didn't want to believe it but Miriana could be dead. If that was true, he wanted to run as far and as fast as possible. It wasn't that he feared their companions as such, for he hadn't felt true fear in longer than he could recollect. It was more that the ire of the entire Inquisition and perhaps even the Orlesian Chantry would likely fall on him. After all, he was a self-proclaimed expert on the Fade. If anyone had insight into the Fade rifts, it should be him.

"She lives," a light voice proclaimed softly. "It makes her think of home, the swirling snow and freezing breath. It makes her think of struggles and friendly faces and a voice she will never hear again." Cole had apparently approached them without their knowledge. "She hurts. It hurts. It hurts to breathe."

Solas turned to look at the boy with the white-blond hair and large-rimmed hat that often served to shield his face from others. "Cole?" he queried softly, understanding innately that the creature in front of him could be easily frightened.

Varric's response, on the other hand, was truer to the dwarf's nature. "Maker's breath, kid. Where did you come from?"

Cole took a step back, slightly affronted by the dwarf's very insistent nature. "She lives," he repeated in his soft voice. "She sees the fire in the distance but it keeps moving away from her." Then, his voice changed pitch and Solas was suddenly aware that he was speaking straight from Miriana's mind. "Are they even looking for me? It's so cold. I need help. I need…"

Solas frowned deeply, attempting to refrain from physically nudging the information out of Cole. "What does she need, Cole?" the mage asked gently.

Cole lifted his head, allowing Solas to fully see his face. "She needs to be found."

"You know where she is?" Varric asked, quickly standing to his feet.

In the same moment, Solas asked, "Can you find her?"

Cole looked back and forth between the dwarf and the elf, a brief laugh erupting from his mouth. "She is near. Do you want to go to her? Do you want to help?"

Solas exhaled roughly, his relief clear in the action, while Varric laughed, the same emotion echoing through the sound. "Sure, kid, as long as she's not dead." The dwarf pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed heavily. "I think I've seen enough death to last me a lifetime."

Echoing their excitement at discovering the fate of the Herald, Cole grinned, grabbing their hands quickly before letting them go. "We must hurry. She is in the dark now and her breathing slows." Alarmed, both the elf and the dwarf broke into a run, not even bothering to attract the attention of Cullen and Cassandra, who had been nearby planning a search party themselves.

As a matter of course, Cullen was examining the map, searching for the most likely ways in which the elven Herald would reach their temporary camp, and did not see the minor commotion caused by two of Miriana's companions. However, Cassandra noticed immediately, as she had made a habit of keeping half an eye on Varric. She still suspected he was lying about Hawke's whereabouts, or lack thereof, and one lie always led to another.

Noticing their frantic escape, the Seeker tugged the edge of the commander's cloak. He frowned up at her, his expression full of impotent agitation, and nearly snapped at her interruption. She arched an eyebrow at him and he immediately backed down, anger falling away into chagrin. "Come on. I think Solas and Varric know something we don't."

It took mere minutes for Cole to lead the elf and dwarf to Miriana's body, which looked as if she had collapsed into the snow in exhaustion. Solas immediately rushed to her side, gripping the edges of her armor to turn her over. Looking up, he addressed his next statement to Cole. "I need you to get Cullen. It will be easier for him to carry her." Positioning his hands in the air above Miriana's torso, he began a simple warming spell.

"No need," Cole replied happily, obviously feeling as if he'd accomplished something. "He comes. The other noticed and they followed."

Feeling somewhat relieved at that, Solas looked down at his elven friend just in time to see her eyes flutter open. However, he immediately noticed that the silver in her eyes seemed somewhat dulled, likely from exhaustion and overexertion. "Solas?"

"Lethallan, I'm here," he murmured gently, pouring a little more focus into the warmth he was giving her.

"Did I fail?"

"Of course not. Why would you think that?" Though he wished he could let her sleep, he wanted to be sure that Cullen was at least in the process of transporting her to the campsite before doing so.

"I always do, ever since I was born. Always wrong, always less." She yawned and smiled her pleasure. "But not today."

He chuckled softly, glad that she seemed none the worse for wear aside from being far less lucid than was normal. "I'm happy for you."

It was then that Cullen arrived, Cassandra quick on his heels. The larger man cast a searching glance at Solas and Varric, his eyes curiously skipping over Cole, before quickly gathering Miriana into his arm. "Hey, Cullen," the elf in question murmured, pressing her cheek into his fur-lined cloak. "Solas said I did good."

The commander smiled gently down at her and nodded. "Yes, Miriana. You did well."

* * *

Following her brief journey into the land of the living, Miriana had fallen back into a deep sleep, still showing no signs of waking nearly fifteen hours later. It worried Cullen with a depth he did not want to recognize. It was dangerous, he knew, this infatuation with the Herald. His duty lay with the Inquisition and pain and gnawing loss thrummed through his bones on the best of days.

It would not do to drag Miriana through his daily struggle.

Gazing down at the olive-skinned elf, he allowed his mind to wander. What if? What if he allowed himself to feel for the Dalish elf before him? What if it was something more than lingering want, something that could grow into… love? Could he allow himself to feel anything beyond the strict duty that had guided him for most of his life? Cullen was unsure if desire and passion truly held a place in his heart, if he even still had the capacity after what had happened in the Circle with Uldred.

Having endured torture in his past, could he allow any real feeling for another into his life?

A sudden rustling from the opening of the tent startled Cullen, bringing him back to the present. Looking up, he frowned to see that it was Solas. Miriana and the older elf were close; one had to be blind to not see that much. Because of this, every time he laid eyes on the elven apostate, he felt a frisson of jealousy, a feeling that reminded him that he had very not-innocent feelings regarding the Herald.

But it was only right that they were close, wasn't it? The Herald of Andraste happened to be a Dalish elf, one who had repeatedly insisted that it was likely not Andraste that the citizens of Haven had seen through the rift from which she had come and that she herself believed in the elven gods, and Solas was an elf that seemed to be an expert not only in the Fade but in elven knowledge and culture as well.

Still, he wondered, how could he, Cullen Rutherford, stand out to Miriana?

Solas set the large bowl he was carrying at Miriana's side and brushed one hand lightly against her forehead. "She yet sleeps?" he asked, his inquiry directed at Cullen.

"Yes." Cullen frowned more deeply, some of his worry worming its way to the surface. "I'd thought she would be awake by now."

"I believe this is normal," Solas assured the man in soft tones. "Not only did Miriana survive an avalanche and the Elder One, but she trailed after us for hours afterward. She exerted herself beyond all reason." Slowly, the elf lifted Miriana's shirt and began to peel away the bandages that wrapped around her lower torso.

At the sight of the bandages and what lay underneath, green and purple mottled bruising, Cullen allowed himself to feel a tinge of alarm. "I wasn't aware that she was injured."

"It's not out of the ordinary, though," Solas stated, uncoiling the last of the bandages from her frame and letting them wind into a pile on the floor. "Even before collapsing the side of the mountain onto Haven, she was diving into battle after battle with the Red Templars." Letting the silence settle between them for a moment, the elf began to poke and prod at the Herald's sides, actions that led the elf in question to groan audibly in pain.

Instinctively, Cullen reached out and grabbed Solas's wrists, halting his movements. This action was rewarded with a steely glare from the elf. "What do you think you're doing?"

Shrugging his wrists out of the commander's grasp, Solas turned back to the bowl, tilting it so that Cullen could see inside. Within the boundaries of the bowl sat another pile of bandages, faintly glistening with some sort of dull green paste. "Miriana showed me how to make these. If she's not in immediate danger of dying, this is how she prefers to heal."

Cullen frowned at that. "Why? Aren't healing potions just as good?"

Solas shrugged and began the methodical task of wrapping the new bandages to cover her bruises. "She alluded to some problems with elfroot addiction within her clan. Because of this, she tends to prefer elfroot in a salve if at all possible."

Cullen swallowed convulsively at the mention of "addiction". For him, even the thought of addiction, a certain sort of addiction from which all Templars suffered, renewed his awareness of the pain in his joints and that yawning need for lyrium. "She alluded, you said?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper. "She didn't mention it directly?"

The elven apostate glanced up at him, a knowing glint in his eye that the former Templar did not at all like. "Miriana remains as vague as is possible when it comes to her clan. I believe she tells me less than others because of my previous interactions with other Dalish clans."

"You don't like them?" Cullen assumed.

"Or they don't like me." Solas shrugged again. Pressing the end of the bandages lightly against Miriana's side, he tugged her shirt back into its original position and deposited the old bandages into the bowl. "Either way, I only know about her friend that died in the Conclave and that she considers herself to be a disappointment, though I know not why. Other details I have gleaned, I am sure she did not mean to reveal."

With that said, Solas left the tent with the same air of silence and aloofness in which he had arrived. Cullen merely gaped after him. Knowing that the two elves seemed so close, how could it still be that so little was known about Miriana?


	6. Change For the Better

_Shadows fall_

_And hope has fled_

_Steel your heart_

_The dawn will come_

_The night is long_

_And the path is dark_

_Look to the sky_

_For one day soon_

_The dawn will come_

_The shepherd's lost_

_And his home is far_

_Keep to the stars_

_The dawn will come_

_The night is long_

_And the path is dark_

_Look to the sky_

_For one day soon_

_The dawn will come_

_Bare your blade_

_And raise it high_

_Stand your ground_

_The dawn will come_

_The night is long_

_And the path is dark_

_Look to the sky_

_For one day soon_

_The dawn will come_

* * *

The memory of an entire camp of Haven survivors bowing in front of her made Miriana wince. Through her conversation with Mother Giselle, she knew that much of Thedas needed faith almost as desperately as they needed air. But still, the elf had to wonder, was it not blasphemous to bow before her as if she was Andraste herself? Was that not something their precious Maker would frown upon?

At the moment, she felt free to express her displeasure. She was far ahead of the rest of the traveling camp by almost a quarter of a league. Looking behind her, she could barely see their forms, the advisors leading the survivors even seeming as insects at this distance. Smiling internally, she faced forward, her sharp elven eyes attempting to gaze far into the distance.

While she failed to see anything resembling Solas's description of Skyhold, what was apparently an ancient fortress that stood on even more ancient elven sacred ground, she did see something darting among the snow. Curious, Miriana scaled a massive stone that sat nearby, which offered her a greater vantage point. Now, she could see it, a gazelle-like creature whose hide was slightly discolored from the snow that surrounded it. It was a form that was familiar to all Dalish and caused Miriana to clamber down the boulder upon which she stood and stride carefully to the creature.

"Little halla, what are you doing in the mountains?" From experience, Miriana knew that halla herds preferred plains and valleys, though they were as capable as goats at the ability to traverse mountain passes.

Surprisingly, instead of skittering off like most unfriended halla tended to do, this one merely pranced around in a delighted circle and approached the elf all the same. It was then that two very distinct items in the halla's appearance jumped out at her. First, this halla had no horns, merely two deep indentions from which they should have grown. Secondly, the short tuft of fur that served as her tail was midnight black, a shock of color against the white of the rest of her body.

"Raelan!" Miriana called out in a shocked voice. "Have you been following me?"

Head held low, the halla snuffled softly as she reached Miriana, pushing her nose into the elf's hand. It was then that Miriana heard the halla's voice in her mind, a deep and melodious female voice. _"You need my help, ma vhenan."_

Miriana chuckled, thinking that she had needed help for some time. "I missed you too, you silly creature." She pressed her forehead against the side of the halla's snout, nuzzling into the warmth found there. "I'd thought you would be in the Beyond by now. The Keeper insisted that you were very ill."

_"I'm with you. For always."_ Even though the mind-voice of Raelan was strong and forceful, Miriana could see the tremble in her limbs and the weakness in her frame. Her halla had always been strong but she had been alive in excess of thirty-five years. Keeper Deshanna had kept Miriana apprised of the decline, as they had life-bonded around the time Miriana had turned twenty years of age. She had found Raelan bleeding and broken outside the city walls somewhere outside Kirkwall just shortly after she had become a full hunter. _"I felt it when the sky tore open, when you were… somewhere else."_

"Oh, Raelan," Miriana exhaled in a quiet murmur. When properly bonded with the Dalish, which was extremely rare, the halla became very protective, sometimes even to the point of sacrificing their own lives.

"Lethallan? Have you sighted Skyhold?"

Miriana straightened immediately at the sound of Solas's voice, her body instantly moving to protect the halla in front of her. The apostate had obviously used his spirit-based magic to dart forward far more quickly than the rest of the survivors. Reaching behind her, she smoothed one hand over the space between where Raelan's horns should have been and the halla instantly settled, trusting instinctively in her bondmate.

"Solas?" Miriana bit out with gritted teeth, her natural protectiveness shifting into overdrive when it came to her precious halla.

_"He calls you kinswoman,"_ the beast reminded her cheekily.

"I did not expect to see a halla in the mountains." Solas arched an eyebrow at his fellow elf. "Is she yours?"

_"Sweet Miri, he means no harm. He is your kind, after all."_

Miriana swallowed convulsively at the nickname, involuntarily hearing it in the voice of a friend recently dead. "Yes, she's mine. We're bonded. We have been for a long time."

Showing his extraordinary ability to sense her dismay, Solas smiled encouragingly and proceeded to lead the conversation away from the one that seemed to be causing her pain. "If memory serves me adequately, we should be within a league of Skyhold now."

Narrowing her eyes slightly in thought, Miriana turned her focus away from the elder elf and removed her hand from Raelan's hide and voice. In front of them, the mountain pass narrowed to a bottleneck, making it nearly impossible to see what lay before them. With long strides, she quickly approached the narrowest point of the pass, her keen hearing informing her that both Raelan and Solas followed at a more sedate pace.

Having cleared the distance easily, the elven hunter released a soft gasp at the fortress that now seemed so close. Reaching it on the heels of the horrible encounter with Corypheus at Haven, which was so painfully unprepared for such an attack, the Skyhold fortress looked too good to be real. "Solas?" Miriana didn't even bother to turn to look at him, as she could feel his presence slightly behind her. "This is it?"

"Yes," he affirmed softly. "This is Skyhold."

"By the Creators…" She exhaled and finally allowed herself to smile at this turn of events. Skyhold had apparently stood for centuries, perhaps even millennia. It would hold against future attacks, Miriana was sure of it.

* * *

Cullen stood in the courtyard of Skyhold, his eyes roaming keenly over the battlements. Unlike Haven, Skyhold was far more easily defensible, less likely to burn under the onslaught of a dragon. Or an archdemon? Despite Leliana's prior experience with darkspawn during her travels with the Hero of Ferelden more than ten years past, even she could not be sure of the creature that had attacked Haven under the behest of the Elder One.

He winced slightly at the memory of the Hero of Ferelden. Though he didn't mention it to others, he had had some encounters with her as well. In fact, he had been a Templar stationed at the Circle Tower where she had been trained around the time of her Harrowing. Some days, likely because of his ordeal in the Tower a few months after she had been inducted into the Grey Wardens, just remembering her name – Neria Surana – caused a painful ache in his chest. He had been much younger then, eleven years ago, and Neria had always been intensely accommodating and often the exact opposite of what he had always been told to expect from mages.

He sighed, shaking his head roughly to clear away unnecessary memories. Yes, it was true that he had felt close to the mage in question, much closer than was considered strictly appropriate. However, for years following the torture in the Tower at the hands of sadistic demons, his attitude toward mages had gone in the complete opposite direction, to the point that he had allowed some truly reprehensible things to happen to them in Kirkwall. In a way, he almost blamed himself for the mage rebellion.

If they had been allowed more freedoms, if the Chantry hadn't been so insistent to control powers they often did not understand, perhaps the situation would not have spun so far out of control.

His attitudes toward mages were better these days. In the last four years since he had come to the realization that it was not just mages in whom he could lose faith, he had been able to reconcile his past with who he was now. He was still a little itchy around mages, which might explain his adverse reactions to Solas to some extent, but it had declined from outright paranoia to the general mistrust of anyone he did not know personally.

In fact, had Miriana been a mage, he had to wonder if he would be nurturing these feelings as he was now. No, he conceded, that wasn't strictly true. If she wielded a mage staff rather than those sharp daggers that could cut ribbons into anything that the Fade spit at her, she would still be the same person. And like she had told him before, elves were inherently magical. Even if she wasn't a mage per se, she still had access to some low-level magicks, which often seemed to be tied to her stealth and agility.

During some discussions, he had also managed to learn more about her best friend, the one that had died in the Conclave explosion and the person that it seemed very few people seemed to have knowledge. Mahonan had been the First to the Keeper, one of the most powerful and knowledgeable mages in Miriana's clan. Perhaps, because of that relationship, she preferred mages to warriors, which would explain her decision to pursue the rebel mages instead of the Templars.

Still, he could not begrudge her any decision she made. Had she chosen the Templars and they had been the allies that now roamed the corridors of Skyhold, he wasn't sure that they would not look on him in disgust and pity. It wasn't often that Templars could survive lyrium withdrawal and he had also given up his rank and title to throw in his lot with the Inquisition.

The bravery of giving up withdrawal, the Templars could understand. But there was no way they would have forgiven abandoning the Order.

But then again, not many of them had been in Kirkwall and none of them had had to survive the reign of Knight-Commander Meredith.

Sighing to himself, he shook his head again, determined to leave the past where it belonged. Maybe he was a little distrustful of mages, but that was okay, that was fine. They had done their part admirably and he was grateful for it. And the Inquisition was not Kinloch Hold of eleven years ago or Kirkwall of four years ago.

This was now, where he commanded the width and breadth of all soldiers under the Inquisition's banner and advised their Inquisitor in all military matters. No matter what, no matter the difficulties that lay ahead, he could endure.

"It is time." Cullen looked up to see that Cassandra, Leliana, and Josephine had joined him in the courtyard. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that Miriana was looking at them curiously, her off-white halla with its dark-as-night tail leaning against her side. He suppressed a grin at the sight; the addition of the gazelle-like creature had revealed more clearly the elf's protective nature to any and all that witnessed her in the corridors, as it was almost always at her side and she rarely let anyone touch her.

"Already?" the commander murmured in question. He glanced quickly at Miriana to attempt to gauge if her injuries had fully healed. She seemed comfortable, no worse for the wear that hours of lone travel on the mountainside in the midst of a blizzard had caused her, but he still worried for her health. "Do you think she is ready?"

Cassandra shook her head at him, a knowing glint shining in her eyes. "She has been ready. She has been the Inquisitor this whole time, despite any misgivings we might have had previously." Turning her face to the Inquisitor, she smiled and gestured Miriana forward. "I will tell her. It will make it easier to take, I hope."

Outside of their gathering, Miriana had stepped forward to greet Cassandra, only to immediately halt at the halla's attendance. To most people, it looked like the elf and the beast were having a needless staring contest. But Cullen knew better. He had… watched Miriana too closely in the past weeks to mistake her current expression for anything less than arguing irritation. After a brief moment, the hornless halla dipped her head in slight deference, an action that seemed almost mocking, and backed gracefully but carefully to her former position.

Focusing on the creature in question, he wondered that the halla had been able to find them so easily. If this seemingly docile animal could find them with such ease, could it not be as simple a task for the Elder One, the so-called Corypheus? For the past few days, though, there had been no sign in the horizon of the darkspawn or his dragon. So, Cullen stared at the halla for a moment, wondering if there was some connection between the creature and their chosen Inquisitor that allowed the halla to track her through leagues of mountains and avalanches.

Glancing up at the stairway that led to Skyhold's great hall, he nearly laughed aloud at the expression on Miriana's face. She looked immensely confused, tilting her head in a way that he knew meant she was arguing with them in a low pitch. Though, whether it regarded her elven race or her supposed incapacity for the role, Cullen could not say.

Then, she turned to look at him, her silver eyes connecting with his own. She arched an eyebrow at him and he knew what she was trying to ask. Did he think she could do it? Even if she could not see it herself, Cullen could openly admit that he believed in her immensely. He would follow Miriana to the ends of the earth, such was his belief in the Herald.

With a smile and a slight nod, the commander attempted to convey with action what he could not with words. In response, a brief smile flashed across her face and her shoulders seemed to release some of the tension she held in her body. Though he was too far away to hear the conversation between the women, he felt proud when Miriana accepted the sword, the Emblem of the Inquisitor.

The sword itself was decorative in nature, its blade no sharper than the face of a shield. It was merely an emblem, though a fierce one. It embodied everything about the Inquisition: the seeking of truth through force and power and the warning inherent in the double-edged blade, that the force in question could easily be turned back on its wielder.

Even as he rallied the forces of the Inquisition behind their Inquisitor, he couldn't help but feel proud of the elf above them, the feeling surging forward as she clutched the sword self-consciously and tried to smile in the face of their praise.


	7. Farewell to the Dead

Dorian looked up, slightly surprised, when he felt the presence of someone in his familiar niche of the library stationed on the second floor of the atrium, just above what had been dubbed Solas's Rotunda. He was also surprised to find that it was Miriana that stood behind him. Turning to give her his full attention – she was the Inquisitor, after all – the shock continued when she merely offered him a small smile in greeting and continued to browse through the books at his side.

They hadn't really spoken since Redcliffe. Within days of returning to Haven, they had done the work necessary to seal the Breach, only to be descended upon by Red Templars and Venatori alike. He had spoken to her briefly about Chancellor Roderick and the man's death but he knew that she had weightier things on her mind. Sometimes, just to get her to talk out the tension he could almost see gathering around her, he wanted to ask how she could sense magic.

It couldn't be the Mark on her hand. That was magic done to a person and sensing magic was almost always an innate ability.

Of course, he always felt horribly awkward around Miriana as well. In her unnaturally-colored eyes and pointed ears, he could see his mother's handmaiden, Clara of the deep purple eyes and severe expression. Having an elf as an Inquisitor, essentially being his better, made it disturbingly clear how many of them in Tevinter were slaves, servants or worse. And yet, he knew with a clarity that came from being part of such a high-ranking family in Tevinter society that the alienages were so much worse.

"How can you stand to be near me?" he finally asked, blurting the words in a manner that was the exact opposite of what was normal for him.

She turned to look at him again, a single eyebrow arched at him curiously. "Are you all right, Dorian?" There was a ring of sincerity in her question that completely undid him and his constant need to be sophisticated and suave and untouchable.

"I'm from Tevinter, Inquisitor. We keep your kind as slaves. While I cannot be persuaded that the poverty of the Southern alienages is better in any way, I have to wonder how you can look at me with anything less than disgust."

She laughed at him, her face relaxing in the action. It was in that moment that he realized that something was wrong with her, that she needed comfort for some reason or another. Because he did not feel fit to ask, he merely reveled that he had lessened her burden by causing her to laugh. "I don't see Tevinter when I look at you, Dorian. I see... disillusionment, I guess. Alexius was your friend, your mentor. You don't think you're better than the people here, even though they keep referring to you as a magister. You're just a person, hoping to do good, someone I wish I could have done more for." She sighed. "I hope what I did was enough."

Dorian blinked four times quickly in succession, trying to muddle through what she had just said. "What do you mean? What did you do?"

"A few hours ago, I judged Alexius." Her lips twisted painfully, showing him exactly how much she hated that it was up to her to judge the fates of others that had done little more than get in her way. "Don't worry, I didn't sentence him to death."

"You didn't?" Dorian almost felt like holding his breath to brace himself. Surely, what she had decided had to be that much worse, something much worse than death. "What… what did you decide?"

"He'll work for the Inquisition as a magical researcher." She smiled a little, though a thick cloud of darkness still seemed to hang around her. "As you said, time magic was impossible until Alexius figured it out. As long as he was being of use, my advisors seemed to accept the decision."

"You kept him around?" Dorian asked, completely flabbergasted. "Why?"

"Because it would hurt you if I ordered him killed. Because I don't wish for unnecessary death. Because he only did what he did to save his son." Sighing, she turned away and fell gracefully into the chair near the window. "I needed a reason to not feel sad today, to think that I did something good."

His concern elevating at her increased dismay, he kneeled in front of her and tried to look as open and caring as he was able. "Inquisitor, what's wrong?"

"Raelan is dying."

For a moment, Dorian was at a loss. Raelan? Was that some new pilgrim? Had she gotten overly attached to one of the civilians that had flocked to the fortress? Then he remembered with sudden clarity the halla that had been forever at her side since they had arrived at Skyhold, even following her to the war table during meetings with her advisors. It was a graceful animal, though obviously different from its fellows in that it was missing its antlers. Until the halla had appeared, he had never seen one of its kind, only having heard stories from the slaves of House Pavus when they didn't notice that he was listening.

"Show me."

* * *

"I'm not sure what you think you can do."

"O, ye of little faith." Dorian grinned broadly at the elven Inquisitor, trying again to lessen her burden through humor. So far, he had yet to get her to smile again. It was frustrating. "My magister lineage is quite powerful. I am certain I can manage a healing spell."

At that, Miriana laughed loudly, again giving him the clear indication that she was laughing at him. He did not find this to be a good omen. After a brief moment, she smiled at him, the expression clearly hiding pain. "Don't you think healing spells have already been done?"

Suddenly, he realized that she was leading him directly out of the fortress, her winding steps taking them to the front gates. "Um, Miriana, where are we going?"

Her small hand with its slender fingers wrapped around his wrist as they walked under the large opening in the gatehouse. "Don't worry, it's not far. She doesn't think I know but she came out to the mountains this morning."

Dorian looked down at Miriana curiously, wondering at the depth of the connection between the elf and the halla. Though the creature was clearly a beast, the elven Inquisitor often referred to her as if she was a friend, sometimes a very intelligent friend. Right now, though? Not so intelligent.

They were not more than a few yards from the edge of the fortress when he noticed the halla. Raelan's hide was not exactly the color of the pure white snow that surrounded them and her tar-black tail was something of a giveaway. Again, the need to please the Inquisitor next to him filled up his soul and he searched his mind for any and all Tevinter healing magic that he had been taught. To be honest, it was not much; much of his tutelage, like his life, had been spent on the fringes of what was normally considered right and proper, resulting in his extensive knowledge of necromancy but quite a bit less of the art of healing.

But he knew some. That had to be enough.

"It won't be," Miriana murmured, her voice soft and pained.

"My apologies," Dorian replied quickly. "I didn't mean to say that aloud."

Reaching the halla, the elf curled her body around the creature, looking oddly at home in the recesses of the halla's flanks. "I know you mean well, Dorian. But Solas is right about one thing. Much of the magic of the Imperium comes from the ancient arts of the elvhen." She sighed, pressing the flat of her hand against Raelan's forehead, in the space that should have been between antlers. "The only reason she has lived this long is because of the efforts of my clan."

He narrowed his eyes at the small elf, despite not feeling any real spite at her comment. He and Solas had had enough arguments over the past few weeks that the idea of Tevinter magic being based in ancient elven magic no longer bothered him. In fact, it almost made him proud. He just would never in a thousand years admit that particular bit of information to the pompous elven apostate.

"Can I at least try?"

Nodding, Miriana pulled away from the halla, obviously aware that any healing magic cast would attempt to heal them both if she touched the creature in any way. By this time, the Tevinter mage was no longer surprised by her knowledge of the arcane but he still smiled to himself. Pulling at the strings on power within, Dorian focused on Raelan's heaving chest and visualized rejuvenating flesh and renewed strength before pushing the magic toward the halla.

Green and white tendrils of light erupted from his hands, speeding through the air to Raelan's shivering body. Dorian grinned slightly, feeling immensely proud of himself for having accomplished this piece of magic that was as foreign to him as the Fade rifts themselves. However, almost immediately, the weak halla's shivering and shuddering halted, stilling the creature's body entirely. At first, Dorian was certain he had achieved his goal before the horrible, terrible truth imposed itself.

That was the stillness of death, of a corpse.

"No!" Dorian screamed, his eyes wide in horror. "That wasn't supposed to happen! Miriana, I didn't… I would never…"

Her hand slipped into his and her other hand palmed his cheek. "Be still, Dorian. She was already gone."

"What?" Dorian thought about stepping forward to inspect the halla but the depth of his failure still thrummed too harshly in his bones. "Why would you let me do that?"

She smiled up at him, her expression full of the pain of loss, a loss that he did not know how to heal. "I hoped. But I haven't heard her voice since yesterday, even when I touched her, even when I talked to her. It was… painful." She sighed and turned away from the mage. "Her soul was already gone and halla often go away to die in peace when the time comes."

Dorian blinked at her response, the horror slowly seeping out of his face. "You could… hear Raelan? How?"

Miriana winked and pulled at his hand, sending one final glance at the halla. "Come. Let's return to the atrium. I'll tell you what I can."

"What you can?" Dorian echoed suspiciously.

She laughed airily and he felt a sense of pleasure tingle along his nerves. At least he had accomplished something. "There are some things I am not allowed to tell outsiders."

* * *

Later that night, long after many of the new citizens of Skyhold were sleeping soundly, Miriana found herself curled into one of the crenellations at the southwest corner of the battlements, thinking about all that had passed in that long, long day. It had begun with waking to find that her dear halla was nowhere to be found and then Josephine informing her that Magister Alexius had finally arrived to be judged. Needless to say, she had been largely unhappy to be seated in the great hall facing the disgraced magister when she should have been searching for Raelan. In the end, she had chosen the least violent way to deal with Alexius, thus adding his knowledge to that of the Inquisition just to end her duties quickly.

Deep down, though, she knew where Raelan had gone. As with any other halla, once the soul had fled, the beast would find a place to succumb to death quietly and peacefully. In all likelihood, Raelan was just outside the walls of Skyhold, breathing her last breaths. However, Miriana still felt raw from the death of Mahonan and needed someone with her. But who to address with this problem? Following her recovery from a mountain falling on her, Varric had been very distant, almost as if he was afraid to get too close. And Solas… Well, needless to say, their last few discussions had included the Dalish and they could never seem to agree when it came to her clan.

So, that left Dorian. Aside from the elf and the dwarf, the Tevinter mage was the only other person around whom she felt comfortable being emotional. In a way, being the "Inquisitor" was far worse than the "Herald of Andraste" when it came to potentially revealing any sort of weakness on her behalf. As it turned out, though, Dorian had been an inspired choice for sharing her grief. Not only was he as helpful as he could possibly manage but he also had the rare ability to laugh her out of the mourning stupor.

In the few hours between watching her halla take its last breath and attending her scheduled lunchtime meeting with her advisors, she had allowed herself to reminisce, a luxury for which she now rarely seemed to have time. She had shared some stories with the Tevinter mage that was quickly becoming one of her best friends, even the one story that was both the way she had found Raelan and the reason she refused to step foot closer to Kirkwall than the Sundermount region.

Roughly thirty-five years prior, near the end of her twentieth year, Miriana had been hunting along the bordering walls of Kirkwall when she stumbled upon the body of the weak and bleeding fawn that would later become Raelan. Being Dalish, Miriana knew well the form of a halla, even a young one, despite what had been done to her. Her antlers, small though they must have been, had been forcibly removed and some children had been painting her tail with tar. The halla had been too weak to do anything about the children other than send a pitiable glance in the approaching elf's direction. For a long time after saving the halla, Miriana had hated humans with an intensity that had been hard to bury or reconcile.

It was hard to believe that the very race that had nearly killed such a sweet creature was the same race that supported and even applauded the efforts – her efforts – of the Inquisition.

The rest of the day until nightfall had been relatively peaceful, spending time with Varric in an attempt to rebuild their friendship. Of course, that ultimately meant forcing him to introduce her to a variety of human games that she had never seen before, Wicked Grace and chess. The first was a must because, as the dwarf had let slip, he intended to host a large game in the future. Miriana had a sneaking suspicion that this "large game" would be more to bring her down to a more grounded state for him than for any real pursuit of fun. The second game, she learned, was because Varric had learned that Cullen was particularly fond of chess and thought they should all learn as a way to "help Curly take the bunch out of his trousers."

Over the course of the day, the dwarf was shamed her utterly during Wicked Grace practice but had only managed to win one game of chess against her, even then just barely. To herself, Miriana thought that her quick aptitude with a game of strategy over a game of deceit made her more like Andraste in his eyes rather than less.

Of course, when night fell, she had promised to meet up with Iron Bull on some sort of rendezvous in which she had zero details. It turned out that, like several of her other companions, he was trying to drive home what her soldiers thought of her. To them, she was a symbol, an idea, even they were intellectually aware that she was an actual person. In a way that Bull could stress where even Warden Blackwall hadn't been able to properly articulate, she realized that she could in fact stand in front of recruits with her elven ears and vallaslin clear for all to see and they would still fail to see the Inquisitor if she dressed and acted… well, like herself.

It was how a recruit, whose name she had not quite caught, managed to wrangle her into his sentry duty. Of course, she had accepted. This recruit was obviously new to Skyhold, still getting turned around even in the courtyard and the pilgrimage to the fortress was not exactly an easy one. His wife had taken ill on the trip and she was not one to force a man to leave his mate to fend for herself.

Thus, Miriana was snuggled deeply into a corner crenellation, staring into the deep darkness of the Frostback Mountains and wondering if it was all worth it. She was alone among more than a hundred humans, some of them nobility, and expected to carry this holy war for them. She missed her clan desperately, despite her many claims that they had little to no regard for her. Those claims were exaggerated at best and completely imagined at worst. Above all else, it seemed she only had one real friend left among her clan with the deathly passing of Mahonan and Raelan both. Neria, a city elf who had joined their clan some five or six years ago, had not written in the few months since their departure from the Planasene Forest in the Free Marches.

Did she blame her for Mahonan's death? They were love-bonded, after all. Was she angry that it was not Miriana herself that had died?

"Recruit Dent, report," a gruff voice demanded from somewhere behind her.

In her shock, Miriana almost moved forward instead of backward out of the crenellation, immediately forming her body into the salute that she had seen Cullen force his soldiers to make at the beginning and end of training sessions. All at once, she realized that the owner of the gruff voice was indeed her military advisor, who she had assumed was long asleep by now. In making this realization, she thought she might have stepped on his toes. He was always very particular with his recruits.

"Not Recruit Dent, Cullen," Miriana corrected in a soft tone.

Cullen immediately straightened at the sound of her voice, clearly feeling a similar shock as she had. "Inquisitor? You should not be on sentry duty." Following that statement, he frowned to himself, as if perhaps he should not have phrased it quite that way.

She exhaled roughly, highly annoyed that her advisors had reverted to titles in place of her given name. She was beyond tired of being called "Inquisitor" or "Herald" or "Your Worship". "Recruit Dent did not ask it of the Inquisitor, Cullen. He asked it of a mercenary." She smiled as she recollected Dent's desperate face. "Even tried to give me two silver as payment."

"Still, Inquisitor, this isn't your job."

Suddenly, the intense grief she had felt much earlier that day returned with a vengeance, channeling itself into anger. "His wife was sick, Cullen. I am not cruel or mean-hearted. Taking one man's night watch is very little return indeed for what they do for me."

For a long moment, silence suspended in the air between them, nearly echoing the snap of her comment. "Something's wrong," Cullen stated finally, his confusion almost solid in the air. "Something's not right." He looked around, as if suddenly realizing something. "Where's your halla?"

Miriana took a deep breath, feeling the effort to do so cause a quivering in her chest. "She's gone." The anger deflated, she sat back into the crenellation, her hands gripping tightly at the stone around her.

"When?"

"This morning."

"You should have told us. We would have postponed today's meeting."

Miriana harrumphed. "The world will not stop ending simply because I grieve, Cullen, nor would I expect it to." She sighed, pressing her hands against the tips of her ears. "You shouldn't worry. Dorian was there to put me back in good humor."

At that comment, Cullen stilled, something in the statement taking him aback. "Right. Well, if you insist on completing this watch, I'll leave you to it." Without another word, the military commander took long strides away from Miriana, continuing his trek along the battlements.

For a long moment, the elf was confused. Knowing that there was some mutual attraction between them, despite not being entirely sure how or even if it should be pursued, she would have guessed that that response smacked of jealousy. But Dorian…? It was obvious to anyone with eyes that despite his tendency toward overt flirtation, he had little to no interest in the female sex. It was not an unfamiliar phenomenon for Miriana; there were enough same-gender dalliances among the Dalish to almost make it normal.

Of course, given that he had spent a large portion, likely the majority, of his life among the religious Templar Order, it was just as likely that Dorian "enjoying the company of men" had not even occurred to Cullen.

Despite her earlier emotional state, the thought put a wry smile on the elf's face.


	8. The End Result

**Author's Note: Hi, all! I hope you've been enjoying my story so far. Just a quick note - the Neria mentioned in my last chapter and more fully mentioned in this chapter is Neria Surana from Dragon Age: Origins, an elven mage raised by the Fereldan Circle of Magi, later to become the Hero of Ferelden. Thanks for everyone that reads this!**

* * *

Standing in Cullen's office, Miriana suddenly felt very awkward. The entire purpose of visiting him had been to get this whole mutual attraction out in the open, hoping to relieve much of its tension. What she had not been expecting, however, was to see him brooding over a lyrium kit, a kit that she now knew had likely not been used since his recruitment into the Inquisition.

She knew from inquiring about Templar training that all Templars were given their first draught of lyrium upon completion of training and thereafter took a lyrium potion almost daily, maybe even more often if battling mages was a certainty. She knew from some of the paperwork that had been passed on to her by Leliana that many of the Templars had taken more than a single daily draught.

It had been a problem that she had solved by recruiting Tanner, the smuggler posing as a Chantry lay-sister.

Now, knowing that Cullen was not taking lyrium and was in fact probably suffering from heavy withdrawal symptoms, she couldn't help but worry. As she had mentioned to Solas previously, when asked why she used elfroot salve smeared on bandages to heal cuts and bruises rather than drinking a potion, elfroot addiction ran rampant among the hunters of many Dalish clans, Clan Lavellan being no exception. Even she, when she was quite small, had been inadvertently addicted to the plant when her parents had fed her potions too much and too often during a hard illness. So, having sweating out the addiction at the age of thirteen, she knew withdrawal symptoms.

During earlier conversations with Cullen, she had learned that he had joined the Order at the age of thirteen, likely completing his training around the age of seventeen. As such, he had had at least ten years wherein he had been taking at least daily doses of lyrium draughts. Could his body easily take the absence of lyrium now? It must be painful, likely in more ways than just the physical sense.

While she ruminated on the variety of ways in which this loss must be hurting him and how very brave he was to do so despite the lack of necessity – the Inquisition could easily acquire more lyrium – he continued to make it clear in the vaguest way possible that he would not take lyrium unless she required it of him. He made it clear that the events of Kirkwall, though he did not specify details, were the main reason he chose to relinquish the collar with which lyrium had leashed him. He also made it clear that he was relying on Cassandra to replace him if he showed any signs of withdrawal weakness.

When she idly noted that he seemed fine and without pain, he agreed with her, stating that some days were better than others. She could guess that down time was the hardest and was likely why he was constantly busy.

There seemed to be something else, something that took his eyes far way. For a moment, she was reminded of a story Neria used to tell her, of a young Templar from her days with the Circle of Magi in Ferelden. Her lips trembled for a moment, picturing Cullen in that story, and forced herself to take a deep breath. No, that wasn't Cullen, couldn't be Cullen. Neria had told her after that Templar's ordeal in the Circle Tower, weeks or maybe even months of torture under the eye of abominations and demons alike, he had no love for mages and had even begged for Neria to slaughter them all, despite being a mage herself. She could not see that Templar in the man that stood before her.

There was a knock on the door behind her and she immediately looked at the scout that opened the door. For a moment, he looked around before settling his gaze on Miriana and smiling in relief. "Inquisitor. A letter from your clan just arrived."

Miriana arched an eyebrow, remembering the last time she was received a letter from the Keeper. "Leliana hasn't read it?"

The scout frowned and shook his head adamantly. "Sister Nightingale insisted that all missives from your clan must be kept private, for your eyes only, from now on."

The elf blinked at that and then nodded, holding out a hand to accept the letter which was far thicker than she would have anticipated. Keeper Deshanna was usually one for few words. Without a word, the scout bowed and backed out of the office. Opening the seal, she realized it was actually two letters, a short request for aid from the Keeper and a much longer correspondence from Neria. She frowned at the Keeper's request, concern deepening the lines around her eyes. The Lavellan hunters normally had no problem with bandits.

"Is something the matter?"

Startled, Miriana looked up at Cullen, about to relay to him the request from her Keeper. Then she thought better of it, reminding herself of their conversation and the still haunted expression on his face. Given that there were other ways to address the Keeper's request for aid, she opted instead to ask Josephine, whose elven scribe solution for the Inquisition's initial contact of Clan Lavellan had been somewhat inspired.

Having decided her course of action, she merely smiled sweetly at him, doing her best to cover her worry in niceness. "Not really. Keeper Deshanna merely wanted to relay that they had stopped near Wycome for a time. It is usually later in the year when we are near Wycome but she says that there are few rifts in the Fade in Wycome's valleys." She rolled up the scrolls in her hands and clutched them at her side. "I should let you get back to work."

"Right, yes." He looked down at his desk again, doing his utter best to overlook the open lyrium kit. "Before you go… Varric says he's been teaching you to play chess?"

The saccharine sweetness leaked from her expression, leaving behind a genuine smile. "That's right."

"I thought, maybe, we could play some time. When you have the time, of course."

"Of course. Perhaps when I return from Crestwood," she offered. "I'm due to leave in a few hours, as it is." Inclining her head at his request, she left him to his peace and silence.

It was time to find Josephine and make use of her connections. If she remembered correctly, Wycome was a duchy, maybe? Sure enough, there was someone in charge who could and would send aid to her clan and her ambassador was just the person to encourage such a ruler to do it.

* * *

_Dearest Miriana,_

_First, I must apologize for failing to write. As I am sure you have assumed, I have been grieving for Mahonon, my love, my light in the darkness. But I know how you are and I must emphasize that I do not blame you. I could never blame you. Try not to wall yourself off from those around you. They can help, even if they do not know they are doing so._

_Now, on to the good news before I must burden you with the bad. I am with child and have been likely since the night before you and Mahonan left the Marches for Ferelden. Given that it has been little over two months since then, the roundness of my belly has changed but little. I hope, I intensely hope that my body will allow me to carry it to birth._

_The bad news is perhaps worse than anticipated. It took me days before I was able to convince Deshanna to press you for aid. We have been attacked by these so-called "bandits" a total of three times already, losing at least five hunters in each skirmish. The last was particularly bad, losing eight of our strongest hunters and wounding even your mother. I was not allowed to battle on this occasion but forced to watch from a distance. The Keeper did not want me to be forced to rely on my magic. The second attack left me exhausted and bedridden for days._

_As I am writing you, Deshanna has forced both me and your father to leave the clan so that we might be safe. I wish I could stay but my ability with archery is limited at best and I promised myself long ago that I would reserve my magic for the darkspawn only. I feel like a burden on the clan now, even more useless in battle than your father. (I apologize for that remark, but it is true.)_

_We were told to head for Ferelden and the Inquisition straightaway by the Keeper and I feel honor-bound to protect your father. Being Dalish, they are not fully aware of the ways in which humans trod upon elves, but I have seen the alienages and I shudder at the thought of some landed lord forcing Storyteller Era into such a place. It is a little more dangerous but I have chosen to take us through the Deep Roads, the safest path I found from my time in Weisshaupt. I have reclaimed the staff gifted to me by Senior Enchanter Wynne and I will use the fullest extent of my power to protect Era._

_If all goes well, you will see us through your gates within a week and I can spend a little time with you and your new friends before sending us back to Wycome's valleys. I pray with fervor that all goes well._

_Sincerely,_

_Neria Lavellan_

* * *

On the road to Crestwood, Miriana walked side by side with Solas while Varric and Blackwall chatted happily a few yards in front of them. The Inquisitor felt highly uncomfortable and on edge but she pinned it on the current discomfort she seemed to have with the apostate next to her. They hadn't spoken since their last argument regarding the Dalish, something that had occurred nearly two days before Raelan's death.

Suddenly, she felt a light touch on her shoulder and she turned to look at the elf in question. In Solas's blue-gray eyes, she could see a deep sorrow and immediately echoed the sentiment. "Lethallan, I must apologize. If I'd realized Raelan was ill, I would never have argued with you." He smiled wryly to himself and then added, "At least, not to that extent."

Miriana frowned at the elf, searching his eyes with her own. "You know she's dead? How?"

He spread his arms outward, encompassing their surroundings. "She would be with us now, would she not?"

"Oh. Right." Miriana exhaled and then smiled. "For a minute, I thought you actually had a civil conversation with Dorian."

"The _Tevinter_ knows?"

Miriana just smirked at him, always amused when his normal open-mindedness closed out others. "He was there, Solas, and he helped me. I was arguing with you and Varric… well, I'm not sure what's going on in Varric's head but he's gotten distant."

Solas's gaze shifted to the dwarf in front of them, arching an eyebrow when the story he had been weaving for the Warden caused Blackwall to guffaw loudly. "He sees you in the same way many see Andraste. You are real but untouchable, solid but unapproachable."

She sighed, raising her hands to press to the tips of her ears before clenching them into fists and forcing them back down to her sides. "I don't want disciples, Solas. I want friends."

"I know, lethallan." Reaching out, he pressed a hand against the middle of her back, offering the solid warmth of his presence. The touch was neither awkward nor romantic and Miriana could feel some of her tension ease. "But you must admit, you are a thing to be feared."

She looked down at her left hand, watching the green glow flicker across her skin. "I'm not sure that's true," she murmured in response.

Removing his hand from her back, Solas instead chose to place it in the hand that held the Anchor, obscuring the glow from view. "I haven't known you long enough to know whether the Anchor has changed you in any way. Maybe it has but I choose to believe it hasn't. You are still a force to be reckoned with, whether you are closing a rift with the force of your will or if you are attacking those that offend the only way you know how. I believe you have always been this way."

Miriana chuckled softly, rolling her shoulders in muted agitation. "I lied before, you know, when I said my clan barely thinks of me. I was one of the best hunters in the clan. When we left, the Keeper admitted not only to the loss of Mahonan but losing me as well." She smiled wryly to herself. "It is not often that she admits the importance of hunting."

Solas tilted his head at her, confused at her admission. "If you were an asset to Clan Lavellan, then why do you regard yourself so little? Why do you constantly think you are going to fail?"

The humor melted from her face, leaving behind bleak sadness. She remembered the first time she had learned the truth, the dejected look on Keeper Deshanna's face. It kept her grounded when the rest of the clan praised her hunting skills, when Mahonan stated that he was so glad someone understood him like she did. "I'm sure you've noticed my eyes? That they're silver?"

The male elf nodded immediately, his lips twisting further upward. "It is hard to miss."

"For some Dalish, this is the sign of the magic-born. I was given to Clan Lavellan because the clan I was born into had far too many mages already."

Solas's brow furrowed. "But you're not a mage."

Miriana chuckled to herself. "Technically, that's true. When I began to show signs, I was traded to Clan Lavellan. But after…" She paused, sighing at the memory. "Keeper Deshanna said it was as if I willfully forgot how to be a mage. The only things that remained were my innate grasp of the arcane, my ability to sense magic, and some small ability at healing and stealth magicks."

Solas stared at her, his steel blue eyes searching her silver ones. "You said that you have been a failure since birth. You were supposed to be the First?"

Miriana nodded, staring ahead into the distance. She could see one of the border camps set up by the Inquisition in the distance. She hoped Scout Harding would have good news but that was almost always not the case. "And I failed at what I was born to do. So…" At this, she trailed off, afraid to even state the thoughts that ran through her mind on increasing occasions.

"So… what?" Solas stared hard at her, as if he was trying to pour the thoughts out of her mind. "Do you think you're going to fail again?"

She shrugged, trying to affect nonchalance. "I'm good at hunting, good at killing things. That is where I have excelled in my life. But now…" She stopped and looked at him, her face revealing completely her burden and her fear in the face of it. "I have to make decisions, choices bigger than anything a single Dalish clan has ever faced. The decisions I make affect the whole south of Thedas, perhaps the _whole_ of Thedas. What if I fail? I'm not sure I could endure that."

"I will not lie, lethallan. It is likely that you will fail. That is the truth of empires of any size: failure is inevitable." He smiled slightly, a small upturn of his thin lips. "But I believe in you, Inquisitor. We all do. Even the most doubtful would follow you to wherever this path leads."

The elf echoed his smile, wry humor twisting the frame of her face. "I'm not sure if I should feel bothered that you have affirmed my future failure or grateful for the overwhelming belief in me."

Solas widened his smile into a smirk, his eyes crinkling in humor. "Grateful, I would think. I believe…" He paused, obviously forming the right words in his mind. "I believe you have the capability to turn almost any failure into a success."

Thinking back on the decision of earlier that day, Miriana nodded. "I hope you're right." Despite her belief that Solas meant what he said and that they seemed to have smoothed the arguments that had distanced them, she still felt oddly agitated. Clearing the air with her fellow elf had not helped her to feel less on edge; in fact, it seemed to have increased her feeling that something bad was coming.


	9. Chess and Correspondence

Dorian stared at the chessboard in front of him, pursing his lips in frustration at yet another lost game. He had been playing chess, a game for which he had moderate understanding, with Cullen every day since Miriana had left for Crestwood. Within minutes of beginning their first game together, it was obvious that the Inquisition's military commander had more of an agenda than some much needed down time.

He asked a lot of questions about Miriana. Oh, Dorian had to admit to himself that he wasn't exactly obvious in his inquiries. Cullen was about as subtle as you could expect a former Templar Knight-Commander to be. His questions were idle and thoughtless but there was clearly an interest there.

Dorian thought it was sweet.

On their fifth day of this questions-and-answers game, a game to which Dorian was far better-suited than that of chess, the Tevinter mage was pleased to see the Inquisitor approach them. He had known her little expedition had returned late the night before, for he had been doing some late-night research when he had been greeted by the sound of shuffling papers and a low murmur coming from the floor below him around the time the moon was at its peak. If Solas had returned, then so had Miriana, Varric, and Blackwall.

At being forced to lose yet again – he should really remember to avoid this game at all costs – he offered Cullen a snide comment and offered a smile of greeting to the Inquisitor. She returned his smile readily enough but only had eyes for Cullen, as Dorian suspected. Within moments, he stalked away, gladly playing the role of the sore loser, but watched surreptitiously as Miriana and Cullen began a game of their own.

After a few minutes, he trailed farther away from them, always keeping well enough within earshot to capture snippets of their conversation and far enough away that he was pretty sure that only Miriana was aware that he was still nearby. That elf was far too observant for her own good. But given the dangers she faced almost daily, he would never begrudge her that particular ability.

It took him longer than he would have liked to admit but he finally noticed their ambassador standing in the far corner of the courtyard, shifting agitatedly from foot to foot and murmuring to herself. It was difficult not to notice her, in the gold-and-blue ensemble that would look gauche on even the most powerful of Tevinter magisters. Given that Orlais had strange fashions in season from time to time and that Josephine's Antivan skin tone failed to clash with the choice, Dorian was of the mind that the choice was merely bold rather than potentially disastrous.

Curious as to her dismay, the mage strode quickly over to her, irrationally glad when a sidelong glance at the Inquisitor revealed that she was laughing at something Cullen had said and had yet to notice the presence of her ambassador. He wasn't sure what exactly caused him to feel this way but the closer he came to Josephine's side, the more intense a feeling of dread settled over him.

He didn't like the feeling one bit.

Finally reaching the Antivan ambassabor, Dorian reached out to place a gentle hand on her shoulder when it became clear that she had not registered his presence. Pasting his best "pariah of Tevinter" smirk on his face, he asked, "Josie? Is something twisting your knickers?"

He had expected a disdainful chuckle, at the very least. What he was given, however, was the saddest and most desperate expression he had ever seen cross the woman's face. "I failed her," she told him breathlessly. "I failed the Inquisitor."

"Well, I doubt that's true." Over the past weeks, it had become quite clear to Dorian that Josephine was perhaps the most well-adjusted member of the Inquisition. The woman was constantly working, even more than the former Templar that regularly beat him at chess, and there had been times that he had discovered that her workload extended beyond the Inquisition.

"You doubt it's true?" Fury swept across her face and she slammed a palm into his chest, the soft crinkle of paper informing him that it was more than passion that caused her to move in this way. "Read that and tell me I didn't fail her."

Catching the missive as it flitted down from his chest, Dorian's eyes scrolled quickly through the correspondence. Certain words jumped out at him, making him cringe. _"Too late", "scattered or killed", "promise of future help"._ At first, he grimaced, seeing only Tevinter subterfuge in the words. After reminding himself that this was not the Imperium and the failure of Wycome's forces was merely a whim of fate, he exhaled the hatred for the Duke that had suddenly built in his chest.

"I'll take it to her."

Josephine reached out to snatch the missive back into her hands, failing when Dorian's height and quick reflexes denied her that goal. "It is my responsibility, Dorian. I must reap what I sow."

"I understand, Josie. I do. But this is her family and…" He paused, not truly wanting to bludgeon the ambassador with the truth. "They are her weakness and she does not want to be seen as weak."

"Are you bothering Josephine?" a soft voice asked from behind him, causing him to spin around to face its owner.

To face Miriana, the Inquisitor.

Dorian felt like kicking himself when he was faced with the happy grin on the elf's face, his normal cocky smirk falling away at the news in his hand. He wished that the ambassador had relinquished the missive, so that he might give her the news away from the two advisors that now flanked her. He had no clue how she would take this news, her precious halla's death a week prior having reignited the sharp grief of losing her best friend in the Conclave explosion.

"Here." He passed the paper to her quickly before Josephine could interject.

"Inquisitor, I—" Josephine stopped whatever she had been attempting to say when Miriana's hands clenched convulsively around the letter, the skin around her eyes tightening painfully. "I'm sorry. This is my fault," the ambassador continued in a small voice.

Miriana closed her eyes and took a deep breath, exhaling after three seconds. She smiled slightly, offering Josephine a serene expression. "It's not," she assured the woman immediately. "I'm sure you can understand if I postpone our daily meeting until the evening."

As the elf took long strides to the courtyard's nearest exit, Dorian tossed a regretful smile at the Anitvan woman and trailed after the Inquisitor. He was concerned for her. He had been sure, after her open grief for an animal, that the loss of her clan would completely destroy her. This serenity, this unruffled behavior, seemed out of character for her.

Once they were out of sight, Miriana crumpled to the ground, falling back against the stone border of the courtyard. Dorian reached out to her, managing to brace her shoulder before her head cracked against the edge of a blunt stone. He pulled her to his chest, slightly relieved when he realized she was sobbing almost uncontrollably, muttering elven words that he could not understand.

After a moment, he was able to identify a single phrase, not knowing its exact meaning but having a pretty accurate idea in context. "Ir abelas."

* * *

Cullen grabbed at the paper that fell to the ground as Miriana walked away from her advisors with a determination that could possibly be described as desperate. Idly smoothing the crinkles that the Inquisitor's sudden reaction had caused, his brown eyes flitted from left to right, quickly reading the note.

"What is this?" he asked, looking at Josephine for direction.

"My failure," she answered immediately. Looking embarrassed when the commander only arched an eyebrow at her, she continued. "That did sound a bit melodramatic, didn't it? The day the Inquisitor left for Crestwood, she received a request for aid from her Keeper. I thought it would be a good idea to enlist the aid of Wycome's duke but it seemed that the correspondence arrived too late."

"I could have directed soldiers directly to her clan. It probably would have been cleaner. Why didn't she ask me?" He frowned down at the missive, his heart clenching painfully in his chest at the thought of Miriana's continuing losses. First, her best friend, then her beloved halla, and now? Her entire clan.

"I am unsure. Did you say something to make her uncomfortable?" In an effort to lighten the weight of her own misstep, Josephine chose instead to tease Cullen.

"I… No, I don't think so. I decided to inform her about my… lyrium situation."

"Ohh," the ambassador breathed in comprehension. "I see."

"What do you see?" he asked, clenching his teeth to rein in the anger at not quite understanding on his own.

"She didn't want to bother you. If you were having a bad day, if you were – dare I say – brooding, she might have felt you needed the break."

"I'm here for her," Cullen argued, feeling the loss of the Inquisitor's clan as if he was the one to blame. "My pain means nothing next to her burden."

"And how do you think she feels?" Even as she said the words, he could tell that Josephine was thinking on those words herself, wondering at the inner thoughts of their elven hunter.

"She blames herself, she always does."

"Dorian said she doesn't want to seem weak."

Cullen nodded, trying to figure out the best way to solve this particular problem. Despite his mistakes in Kinloch Hold, his six years of service under Knight-Commander Meredith and the subsequent three years as Kirkwall's de facto Knight-Commander had trained him for the difficulties of reality. "She needs time," he decided after a long moment. "We know next to nothing of her clan but we know she will grieve. Until that has abated, we must do what we can to lessen her burden."

Josephine nodded, instantly agreeing with his assessment. "But without diminishing her authority as the Inquisitor. She is still the sole authority of the Inquisition and the only individual that can stand against the rifts."

"It is decided," Cullen stated. "Until this evening's meeting, we should let her grieve however she wishes."

* * *

Neria Surana squinted her eyes at the blinding whiteness of the snow that surrounded them upon exiting the Deep Roads. Considering Storyteller Era's utter uselessness in the face of battle, she had chosen one of the safest routes that take them from the northeast corner of the Free Marches to the Frostback Mountains in Ferelden rather than the most direct route. There was a route through the Deep Roads that would have taken less than three days at a rapid pace but it hadn't been patrolled in over thirty years and she would not risk the life of the father of her oldest friend still living in that fashion.

Even though it had taken just over a week, Neria was proud in her choice of route, given that there had been no more than two small skirmishes a day, each small battle containing no more than four genlocks. Era had known well enough to escape the field of battle early and had survived his first journey through the Deep Roads mostly unscathed.

That could not be stated by many.

Turning in a circle once, Neria used her Warden senses to reorient herself to the surface. As she used the sun, still high in the sky but clearly afternoon sun, for its direction, she finally realized that the large stone structure that seemed somewhat at a distance was their destination.

"By the Creators," Era exclaimed in an exhaled breath. "Do you know what that is?"

Neria arched an eyebrow at the storyteller, wondering if she was in for another long-winded lecture. She loved knowledge, always had. It was sometimes the only thing that got her through the solitude of the Fereldan Circle of Magi. But Era, he sometimes seemed to like the sound of his own voice. "A fortress? I believe Keeper Deshanna called it… Skyhold?"

"I thought that was just a name. But it is Tarasyl'an Te'las."

Neria scrunched her nose at the elven phrase. Even in the five years she had spent among the Dalish, she still failed to completely grasp what scraps remained of the ancient elven language. "And that means?"

"The place where the sky was held back," Era answered automatically, his attention still so awestruck that Neria had to pull information out of him rather than resist the temptation of ignoring him.

"A bit on the nose, don't you think?" The elven mage smirked at the fortress, her spirits lifting at the thought of seeing Miriana again. The past weeks had been so dark with the knowledge that Mahonan was dead but Miri always had this ability to pry the smile out of anyone. Neria always thought that she was so busy taking care of everyone else that she hardly thought about herself.

Suddenly, a teenaged boy appeared in front of her, his face partially obscured by the wide brim of a floppy hat but his bright blue eyes were so earnest that she did not feel the need to heighten her guard. "You're the Warden? The elf with the little one growing inside?"

"Yes, that's me." Neria smiled, trying to figure out what this creature was. Given his sudden appearance, he was obviously not human but she had spent enough time in the Fade to have a good grasp of the difference between spirits and demons. In a way, he didn't feel strictly like any of those things but he felt mostly like a spirit. "I'm Neria."

"She hurts. Hurts so much." For a moment, he stopped and tried to breathe, looking like he was trying to breathe around some unseen hurt. "She made a mistake but it was no one's fault. I can't help. I tried every way I know how. Solas says she's lost in sorrow. He knows that feeling."

"Shh, calm down." She pressed a hand against his shoulder, trying to make the boy feel comfortable. He still seemed almost panicked. "What happened?"

"You call her 'sweet Miri'. The message came and she solved it. Or so she thought. But another message came today. She cries and cries. Ir abelas!"

Neria sighed and rubbed her belly once in a circular motion, easing the building nausea in her abdomen. "I can hurry ahead. Era, will you be able to make it on your own?"

"I'll watch him," the boy said instantly, his eyes roving over the older elf in interest. "You can call me Cole. That is who I am."

Neria blinked, feeling as if their entire conversation has developed out of order. "Okay."

Cole reached out, tugging her sleeve before releasing her. "Don't go into the gatehouse tower."

Despite the fact that she hadn't intended to even pay the slightest attention to the gatehouse, she was still curious at such a bald statement. "Why?"

"Cullen remembers the demons. He helps hold the Inquisitor together. You'll make him remember the demons more."

Nodding, she acquiesced to the spirit's demand, running on light feet to the gate of Skyhold that loomed in front of her. She happened to glance up at the gatehouse tower in time to see a silhouette there, an almost familiar silhouette. Then she remembered what Cole said. _"Cullen remembers the demons."_

Gasping to herself, she realized that the Templar Cullen that had been so broken when she had last seen him more than ten years ago was now here, in this fortress with Miriana. This was why the spirit had warned her of his presence. If she interacted with him, it would throw his trauma from the Blight into sharp relief.

She swore to herself that she would do all in her power to avoid any and all contact with that particular Templar.


	10. The Grieving Process

Solas sat on the edge of Miriana's bed, threading his fingers through her now loose hair and singing an ancient elven hymn in a low melody. Released from its normal braided bun, her black hair extended to her waist, its length now flowing down her back. Her body still shuddered, though her cries had ceasing nearly an hour earlier. Now, the Inquisitor merely stared forward, her eyes glued to some distant and unseen object.

For the first time in a long while, the elven apostate felt utterly useless. Miriana had confided him over the past few months, that much was clear. In fact, aside from Cullen, he was the single person inside the walls of Skyhold that knew her the best. Despite this fact, the only thing he could do for her was sing the old songs and hope that his mere presence was soothing in some way.

He had been alone for so long that he had almost forgotten that deep grief of losing everything that meant anything to him. But her desolation reminded him of that sorrow.

"Leliana, you have to promise me," a voice demanded from just beyond the door that led to the corridor that separated the Inquisitor's private quarters from the main hall. "I will not have you dragging up his past when he is apparently doing well."

There was a small chuckle, the familiar dark laughter of Sister Nightingale. "How would you know he's doing well?"

"Because Miri would not have stayed here for so well if it wasn't good work." There followed a pregnant pause, in which Solas could clearly picture the unknown woman smirking at Leliana. "You must have noticed her moral code by now."

"You—you know the Inquisitor?" For the first time, Solas realized that there was much that the spymaster did not know, despite her tendency to act as if she was aware of every fact under the sun. "Right, you've been traveling with the Dalish."

"With the Lavellan," the woman corrected. At that admittance, Solas gather that the woman must be an elf. It was extremely rare for Dalish clans to allow other races to travel with them. "Do you promise?"

"I vow on my life and the memory of the Divine that I will not mention your presence to the military commander of the Inquisition, Ser Cullen Stanton Rutherford. Are you happy?"

"Quite." At that, Miriana's door finally opened and Solas was able to see the owner of the voice. She was similar in height and build to Miriana, though her skin was much paler and her hair of an auburn shade. One hand rested almost protectively on her belly, making Solas believe that she was likely pregnant with an unborn child, and the other hand reached to her back to set aside the long dragonbone staff she carried with her. "Oh, dear," she murmured at the sight of Miriana.

It was odd. She seemed familiar, as if he had seen her before, but he knew that he had not.

At the sound of her voice, Miriana immediately came back to the present, sitting up abruptly and her hands reaching back to pull her hair into some form of array. Solas instinctively stilled her hands, an act that was rewarded with a smile that seemed to be both grateful and annoyed. Then, she turned her attention back to the elf in front of them. "Neria! I'd forgotten you were on your way."

Now knowing her name, Solas could clearly remember the battle of Ostagar as shown to him by the spirits of the Fade, one of the first journeys into the memories of the Fade he had shared with the Inquisitor. He could clearly hear the distorted voice of the man that was now King Alistair Theirin of Ferelden shouting for a woman called Neria, a new member of the Grey Wardens and the only one of the three recruits to survive the Joining.

"You're the Hero of Ferelden," Solas stated bluntly, his surprise outweighing his usual need for caution.

Neria barked a short laugh. "We'll refrain from spreading that around, shall we?"

"She doesn't like remembering the Blight," the Inquisitor added in a soft voice, the words carrying only to his ears. "It was… a difficult time."

Solas offered his friend a small nod, respecting the unspoken request that he not ask her anything about the Fifth Blight or how she had survived her battle with the archdemon. Maybe some time in the future, he could ask these questions or willfully seek his answers within the Fade. But now, if what Neria said was true, if she was now a member of Miriana's clan, she would soon be feeling the pain of their loss as well.

Taking long strides forward, Neria knelt in front of Miriana, gazing up at the Inquisitor with bright blue eyes. "What happened?"

The Inquisitor let her chin fall to her chest, a clear sign of shame. "I made a bad decision." She sighed and pushed her loose hair back from her face. In response, as if it was a reaction bred out of habit, Neria took a seat next to her and immediately began to braid the offending hair away from Miriana's face. "I had Josephine handle it. She's our ambassador. She contacted the Duke of Wycome. We received word today that his forces were too late."

Neria let out a breath she was holding and concentrated for a moment on the simple movements of the intricate side braid she was crafting. "Many of the city-states in the Free Marches have come to despise our presence. Do you think this duke would have attacked our clan and covered it up?"

At that question, Solas felt a white, hot rage suddenly light his blood on fire. Yes, he had thought of this possibility himself. Yes, it was entirely possible that the hatred between human and elf had gone a bit too far this time. But the Warden should never have mentioned it to Miriana. Would it not make her pain all the worse? The apostate could not handle the idea of Miriana hurting any more.

"I've thought about it," the Inquisitor admitted in a soft voice, the same tone Solas suddenly realized she had been using since her crying subsided, since Dorian had forcibly removed him from the atrium to help her. "I know it's a possibility. There is no love lost between humans and elves and the duke would not need a big push to attack." She offered her friend a small understanding smile. "It is why we avoid Wycome until the winter descends, why we often camp at the far end of the valley. But the rifts in the Fade probably pushed the clan closer to the city than normal."

It was only through some small effort of his part that Solas didn't end up openly gaping at Miriana. The fact that this had occurred to her, that these thoughts had been running through her mind the entire time that she hadn't spoken an intelligible word outside of elven sorrow, it made him want to offer some sign of affection, some indication that she wasn't alone.

Instead, he decided to join the conversation, offering what little aid he could. "If that is true, if the ruler of Wycome attacked your clan without reason, what will you do?"

At the question, sadness swept across her face again, causing Solas to curse himself for his bluntness. "Nothing. I will do nothing."

"What do you mean, nothing?" Neria asked, the high pitch of her voice indicating that she couldn't believe what Miriana was saying.

"There's nothing that can be done other than launching an investigation into Duke Antoine, which would stretch the resources of the Inquisition needlessly. I have no real reason to investigate him. Ostensibly, Clan Lavellan was destroyed through the actions of a particularly relentless group of bandits."

"But… Miri, they died. What about their bodies? We can't just leave them," Neria said, her normally unruffled demeanor shattered.

"We will do nothing," Miriana stressed, her voice like a loud crack in the large empty room.

"Excuse me, Inquisitor?" Leliana's hooded figure appeared at the stairs that led to the main hall, her palms up and outward in a peacekeeping gesture. "If you wish, I could send some of my agents to collect the remaining bodies of your clan members."

Miriana nodded curtly, allowing the spymaster her moment of kindness. However, as if she sensed the anger brewing in the room, Leliana immediately left and Solas could hear the soft click of the door shutting as gently as possible. Almost immediately, the Inquisitor stood up and began to pace, her incomplete braid quick to unravel into a dark cloud around her head.

"Neria, this isn't like the Blight. This isn't nightmares of darkspawn and an archdemon that you haven't seen yet. This isn't struggling to enforce centuries-old treaties for a fight that you weren't entirely sure would ever come." Sighing roughly, the Inquisitor pulled her friend to the west-facing window, where the Breach could clearly be seen in the distance. "That is here _now_. The world is in danger _now_." Then, she held up her left hand, the green glow pulsing lazily in the retreating sunlight. "My duty is to Thedas, to the Inquisition, no matter what I may be feeling in the meantime."

Despite agreeing with her words, Solas could feel his heart twist in anguish at the thought that the problem that Corypheus had caused was essentially forcing Miriana to put the well-being of thousands of humans before that of the People. If he, a lone elf that was despised by the Dalish and considered a pariah by all city elves, felt such pain at this realization, what sort of torture must a born Dalish be experiencing at such a time?

"Miri, that can't be true. The People have always meant everything to you."

Solas turned away, pressing a hand against his forehead, and bracing himself. He couldn't help the surge of embarrassment he suddenly felt for Neria. Most of the time, the Inquisitor was quite level-headed, to the point of even being self-deprecating. She was calm and strangely at ease in this foreign place of power, except the times he had heard her shout at her advisors in exasperation when they couldn't seem to agree on a single course of action.

He had a feeling that this was one of those times.

"Corypheus, the darkspawn magister that tore a hole in the sky, does not give a whit whether he is harming humans or elves or dwarves or the Qunari. He wants to rebuild the Imperium, Neria! Do you know what that will mean for elves across Thedas?"

Neria frowned, undisturbed by her friend's outburst. Instead, she tilted her head at the elven Inquisitor. "No, I get that. I truly do. But… are you angry about something else?"

"You should have told me you were hearing the Calling," Miriana answered in a soft murmur.

Neria frowned. "I wasn't. Not until…" At that, the Warden mage paused, obviously calculating something in her head. "About three days ago. It was this weird song that wouldn't go away. It didn't start until… Well, your father and I must have crossed the Waking Sea into Ferelden."

"All the Wardens in Orlais and Ferelden are hearing it," Miriana stated then, more likely repeating the fact to herself rather than informing Neria. "I had wondered if Blackwall and the Fereldan king were just resistant." She focused on Neria, her silver eyes seemed to penetrate the air between them. "It doesn't frighten you?"

Neria shrugged. "It annoys, I can assure you. But it's just noise. If I focus or if I'm doing something, _anything_, it just sort of fades away for a while." She placed a hand on the Inquisitor's shoulder, offering an encouraging smile. "Every time I faced a hurlock in the Deep Roads, it was like the song helped. But the Calling… from what I've read, the Senior Wardens have withheld much about the Calling."

"Does it not signal your death?" Solas asked curiously.

Neria winced and shook her head. "Not necessarily. The Joining binds us to the darkspawn but we are resistant to blight sickness. Members who leave the Wardens permanently may never hear the Calling naturally."

"Like Alistair?" Miriana asked, an undertone of bitterness clear in her voice.

"Yes, like Alistair. It is likely he has not gone into true battle with the darkspawn in the last ten years. I can hear the Calling but it is faint, like a whispered song, and I have continued fighting the darkspawn over the years to keep them clear of the clan. Most of the Wardens will choose to patrol the Deep Roads when there is no Blight." She arched an eyebrow in a manner that almost seemed comical. "Perhaps I should investigate?"

Miriana raised her hands immediately and shook her head. "No! Warden Stroud is already doing that and it has placed him in danger from his fellow Wardens. Besides, you'll have the clan to worry about soon enough."

Solas frowned. "But… I thought…" He trailed off almost immediately, feeling a desperate need to not seem ignorant in front of the Dalish elf.

"The Keeper sent my father and Neria away because they could not fight. Or rather," she amended when Neria looked particularly wounded by her statement, "that she did not want you to fight. Deshanna was not stupid. Even though she is now probably one of the corpses that Leliana wishes to retrieve, she would have sent away the children and noncombatants before the final attack."

* * *

Varric stood nervously in the main hall, shifting from one foot to the other, when he noticed Cole escorting an older elven man through the tall double doors. He was been pacing the area between the door that led to the Inquisitor's personal quarters and the door that led to Josephine's office for close to two hours. Even since Dorian had escorted the elf to her room, the dwarf had known something was wrong. She wasn't crying but she was obviously distraught, her face conveying deep upset and her only words being strange ancient elven phrases.

Upon witnessing Miriana's unique silver eyes clouded with unabating grief, he was reminded that her every decision had deep and rippling repercussions. Additionally, it was becoming increasingly clear to Varric that the elf in question was not merely a machine or a symbol to be emulated. She was a person, a person with the weight of the world and hundreds of followers on her shoulders. Even though the dwarf himself was one of the many that had placed her on the pedestal of a prophet, he had no clue how she was dealing with that burden.

He also knew that her pain had nothing to do with the failure of a wrong decision made but more to do with her inner protective nature. She was a hunter and he had seen the true nature of the Dalish hunters when he had been researching the elven clans. The warriors of the Dalish were strong and violent, that was true, but that was the least of what they were. It wasn't their strength that mattered but their overpowering need to protect the clan from outside violence. Even though he didn't have many of the details surrounding the decision that led to their Inquisitor's grief, he knew enough to know that she had failed to protect her clan.

Varric couldn't even imagine how she must be blaming herself.

Now, their spirit friend – who often acted more humane than most people he knew – was escorting a pale elf into the main hall. Maybe he was a member of Miriana's clan, perhaps sent away in advance of the attack that obliterated the Inquisitor's family? The dwarf tilted his head at the older elf as he rotated in a slow circle in the middle of the hall, utterly heedless of the humans that stared at him. He couldn't be related to Miriana, not by blood. His skin tone was closer to that of Solas, who always look shockingly pale when contrasted against the Inquisitor's olive skin.

"He bears gifts but he won't tell me," Cole said, suddenly standing next to Varric, his countenance conveying that he was pouting.

Despite nearly two weeks of dealing with Cole's abundance of sudden appearances, they still caught the dwarf off-guard. He hoped that time would abate the way his heart constantly jumped into his throat at the spirit's intrusions but he also liked it a little. Other than the Inquisitor, very few people maintained the ability to surprise him as Cole did. "Given that you can just peer into people's minds," Varric replied after a brief moment of calming his nerves, "maybe he doesn't know."

Cole scoffed immediately, a surprisingly human response. "I can't always hear thoughts, Varric. I only hear when there is hurt, when I can help." He sighed then, inclining his head toward the dwarf. "But you are right. The storyteller does not know its contents, except he thinks he might know. But the Keeper said it was for Miriana only and no one else."

"Did you say storyteller, kid?"

Cole nodded eagerly, a wisp of a smile floating over his face. "He has all their knowledge tucked away in the corners of his mind. Battles and stories and the lessons learned by the ancients. But it's all in pieces, fragmented and jagged. He thinks they only have the barest fraction of their former legacy."

Varric arched an eyebrow at the spirit, distracted for a moment from his confusion. "I thought you could only hear when they wanted help?"

"He hasn't seen his sweet Miri's face in so long." After that statement, Cole's voice deepened very slightly and Varric knew he was repeating something straight from within the elf's mind. " 'When she led hunting parties, she was only gone for two days at the most and even her scouting journeys lasted only a week. It's been three months now. Has she changed? Have the humans harmed her?'"

"So, she is his daughter?" Varric asked, doubting and yet knowing the truth all the same.

Cole's lips curved into a line suspiciously close to a knowing smirk. "You already have the answer."

"Naughty. You're not supposed to be in my head," Varric accused, causing the very human-like spirit to break into a soft giggle. "So, she's not really from Clan Lavellan?"

The spirit responded by merely clucking his tongue and the dwarf knew that the truth was far more complex than that. Maybe they weren't blood but even the surface thoughts Cole picked up from the older elf showed a stronger bond than he had ever shared with Bertrand.

A strong-as-onyx bond that could be seen clearly when the door just behind the Inquisitor's throne opened to reveal Miriana herself, her face a darker shade than her father's but miraculously clear of grief.

"Papae? Papae!" From the way the Dalish elf inflected her words, he could tell she was using the elven language, likely a term for her father. "Ir abelas mamae."

"Ma len." The elf sighed and he easily pushed them back to the common language. "Her passing was swift. Let it not burden you." He smiled and held a package to her, something that caused some lingering grief to flee her form. "You have too much weight upon your shoulders. The Keeper granted your wish."

After that, they walked out of earshot but Varric could feel a lingering pain in his chest ease. Somehow, despite the distance that he was forcibly creating between them, an action rooted in his awesome fear of her, the relief of her pain seemed to ease his own. He had once told Cassandra that Hawke had an effect on people, made them trust and follow as if it was their own decision, but they didn't inspire that Miriana did without even thinking about it.

He promised he would try harder to do as she had asked him a few days prior. He would try harder to be her friend.


End file.
